"May the New Year bring you courage to break your resolutions early! My own plan is to swear off every kind of virtue, so that I triumph even when I fall." -Aleister Crowley

93 days sober

When I open my locker on Thursday morning, there is an e-card print-out taped to the inside of the door. It reads, Congratulations on the anniversary of your horrific alcoholic bottom. Underneath that are the words ninety-three days and a smiley face, in Travis’ handwriting. I grin and glance over my shoulder, already knowing that he’s going to be hovering nearby like a creep so that he can see my reaction to it. Sure enough, he shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders over, leaning his shoulder against the locker next to mine. “You know, it’s actually traditional to celebrate the anniversaries like thirty days, sixty, ninety. Six months, a year. Not just whatever day you happen to pick,” I say. He shrugs. “I could’ve done it for ninety, but I figured that you’d be happier about making it to the day you weren’t able to get to last time.” He’s right. There has been a red ‘90 days clean and sober’ NA keytag hanging from my keyring since Monday, but it hasn’t felt real until now. It hasn’t felt like progress until I reached the point where I wasn’t just trying to make up the ground I’d lost after my last relapse. And the picture taped up in front of me is exactly the sort of irreverent, tongue-in-cheek congratulations I need. To show my appreciation, I leave my locker hanging open and step closer to Travis, letting him pull me into a kiss. It’s slow, soft, sweet, not nearly as raunchy as most of the ones we’ve shared in this hallway. It’s the sort of kiss that starts a faint smoldering in my chest and keeps my heart warm for days. The sort that makes it impossible for me to sit him down and tell him we’ve got to stop this once we move in together in less than a month. I’ve been trying to psych myself up to talk to him for a week and a half now, and it never feels like the right time. Our teachers are loading us down with study guides and worksheets to prep us for exams next week, and our trial law competition only wrapped on Tuesday—Travis’ team won their section, mostly because he carried them through it, and my team lost ours, mostly because one of the fake-attorneys for our side forgot her closing argument, started crying, and ran out of the competition room without finishing. And considering I’d later gotten detention for the fact that I spent the entire bus ride back to school after the competition chewing her out and making her cry even harder, I didn’t get a chance to have The Big Talk after school, either. I know I have to talk to him. I know that Doc is right about this. But between school, and his work schedule, and my sobriety meetings, and both of us having to awkwardly divide time between Ben and Alex now that Al doesn’t want to hang out with the dude who shot him down pretty hard… life is busy. And I’m a pussy. And those things combine to a whole lot of not talking about it. But the bell isn’t going to ring for another five minutes, and it can’t take much longer than that to say ‘hey, my shrink says I have to stop putting it in you once we’re roommates,’ so I pull back from the kiss—dart back in for another quick one, because hey, one for the road—and then open my mouth to tell him. He starts speaking before I can get a word out. “I, uh—” He breaks off into a small, self-conscious smile, like he knows that what he’s about to say is super lame, and he’d love it if I could hold off on making fun of him until he’s done speaking. “I asked Jerry to give me the night off work. I thought I could maybe take you out to celebrate. You know, dinner, a movie. Me blowing you in the back of my car, maybe.” “Just maybe?” I say. He smirks. “Alright, I’ll definitely blow you, but we should at least act like I’m not a sure thing.” “I’ll pretend to be shocked,” I say solemnly. “So, you’ll go?” he says, bouncing in place like he’s too psyched to stay entirely still. I nod, and there’s that dorky, adorable smile again. “Awesome. I’ll pick you up at your place at like, six thirty.” That’s the first hint, but I don’t pick up on it. The second hint is that he actually comes to my door and rings the bell when he shows up to pick me up, rather than just sending a get your ass outside text from his car. The third hint is that he takes me to dinner at the Lakewood Diner because the waitresses there all know me well enough not to judge me when I order the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets off the kids’ menu. The fourth hint is that he pays for those dumbass nuggets, and the fifth is that he also pays for both tickets to the mindless action movie I mentioned a week ago that I might want to see. But I don’t actually figure out what’s going on until he nods towards the concession stand in the theater lobby and says, “Do you want to get anything?” The butter on movie theater popcorn tastes like yak piss, so, that’s a big ‘no’ for me. I could go for some gummy bears—I could always go for some gummy bears—but we just ate dinner, so I shake my head no. I’m not sure if I’m incredibly transparent, or he just knows me too well, but Travis rolls his eyes, drags me over to the counter, and buys me a bag of gummy bears anyway. He buys them for me. Like, he takes his wallet out of his pocket, and he passes a ten to the chick working the counter, and she puts down a bag of gummy bears and hands him his change, and he puts it in his pocket again, and he hands me the bears, and he does that all with one hand, because his other hand is still holding mine. I blink at the bag of candy, then at our hands, then back at Travis’ face. “Dude,” I say. “Are we on a date?” “Uh, yes?” he says, looking totally unimpressed with me. “I’m sorry, was there a part of me saying ‘hey, I want to buy you dinner, take you to a movie, and then perform oral sex on you in the backseat of my car tonight’ that was in any way ambiguous?” The concession stand girl tries unsuccessfully to conceal a snort. Travis shoots her a sheepish smile, as if he’d forgotten she was there, and pulls me towards the hallway that leads to our theater. We snag a pair of seats in the back, and when I slouch down, kick my feet up, and dig into my gummy bears before the trailers are even over, Travis loops an arm around my shoulders and leans closer to me. Doesn’t even try for the yawn-and-reach, just stretches out over my skin like it’s a given. Now that I know that this is a real date, it’s impossible for me to relax into his touch. I haven’t been on a date since the beginning of May, when Dave was still trying to impress me by taking me out to rock shows and coffee outings and fancy dinners. And I’ve never been on a date with Travis—not recently, not when we first got together. Never. This is our first date, and when it’s over, I’m going to have to sit him down and… not break up with him, because we’re not together, but end things. And it’s all because I couldn’t keep my shit together; if I’d never gotten so fucked up on coke and drinking, we wouldn’t have to worry about me staying clean. We could be together for real, but we’re not, and that’s all on me. The height difference between us is minimal enough that Travis doesn’t have to stretch up to keep his arm around me even after the movie has ended and we’ve begun our progress out to the parking lot. He only releases me once we’ve reached the car, but even then, he threads his fingers between mine the second we’re both in our seats. “I have to say, dude, that movie? Kind of blew. I can’t believe you actually wanted to see it,” he says, grinning over at me. I try to smile back, but my face feels almost numb, so I don’t think I pull it off. “So, what now? Do you want me to bring you home, or do you wanna—” “If I break up with you right now, does it not count, because we’re not a couple?” I blurt out. The smile is frozen on his face for ten silent seconds before it melts off completely and he starts to look nervous. “Garen, I don’t—is this because I just—you know I was joking, right? About the movie? I don’t care if you like shitty movies, and I’m pretty sure that what I said is like, really, really not worth—” “No, stop,” I say, and he closes his mouth so abruptly that I can hear his teeth click together. “It’s not about the movie. It’s not even about you, or us. It’s all about me—because what fucking isn’t about me, apparently—and the fact that I can’t… you remember the session I had with Doctor Howard at the beginning of last week?” He nods dumbly. “She and I talked about the move to New York, and what it would be like for you and I to live together. And I realized that what we’ve got right now—being together, but not being together—isn’t something I can handle if we’re going to be living together.” “But I told you, it wouldn’t be like that,” he says. It almost sounds like he’s pleading with me, and that’s too much; I squeeze my eyes shut, and that must be exactly the wrong thing to do, because then his hands are on my face, and he’s physically turning my head towards him. “Garen, look at me.” I don’t want to; I do it anyway. “I told you that it wouldn’t be like that. I’m not trying to trick you, dude. I’m not trying to make you feel like we’re together just so I can pull away from you again. We’ll have space, I swear—we’ll have our own rooms, we’ll be living our own lives, but we can keep what we’ve got now. If the issue is all about us living together, we—G, it’s only a six month lease. For all we know, you could pick some college on the west coast, or I could hate Columbia and decide to transfer to somewhere else; we might not even still be living together after the end of June. And then once September comes, and you’ve been sober and single for a year, we can figure—” “Travis, I’m not single right now,” I say flatly. “We can debate semantics all you want, and this can turn into another in-an-open-relationship-with, not-dating situation like it was with me and Ben, but the fact of the matter is that right now, you and I are a goddamn couple. And if we go into a living situation with our wires crossed and things turn out badly, I don’t think I’ll be able to stay clean through it. So, you need to give me an answer right now: are you willing to give up on the idea that I need to be single during my first year of sobriety? Are you ready to be my boyfriend again for real?” I know what his answer is going to be before he even gives it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear it when he says, “No, I’m not.” I give a short nod. “Okay. Then… we’ve got two and a half weeks until the end of the year. Our lease goes into effect at noon on the first of the new year, and I think that, um… once that happens, we should stop doing this. I think we should make the best of these next few weeks, but once we’re living in New York, if you’re saying I need to be single for my first year sober, then I need to be single.” Truthfully, I’ve been rehearsing this little speech for nearly two weeks now, and it’s not because I expect Travis needs that much convincing. When push comes to shove, he will always do what he thinks is in my best interest, even if it hurts both of us. I’m the one that really needs to be talked into believing that this is the right solution, because my heart instinctively shudders away from anything that will take me further away from Travis. But I’ve thought about this and nothing else for days. I’ve checked in with Doc three times just to make sure I’m doing the best thing for my mental health. She’d been accommodating at first, but by round three, when my argument had devolved mostly to whining, but I love him, Doc, she started kicking me out of her office, because she is the worst therapist ever. I’ve showed up unannounced at the New Haven apartment so that Alex and Ben can give me pep talks. The third time it happened, Ben had been in the middle of hosting some sort of study group with his Yale friends, which was crazy awkward, because apparently his entire social circle at college consists of objectively sexy hipster chicks from the English, Art, and Theater departments. They’d all gotten way too excited by what quickly turned into a four-hour explanation of the romantic workings of our group of friends, and Ben had just sat there glowering at me the whole time, blushing whenever I went into overshare mode about our relationship and pretending to be absorbed in his copy of Don Quixote. I’ve taken Stohler out for coffee and had her help me compose lists of pros and cons all over the backs of Starbucks napkins, just like that first coffee meeting where I made that Chart of Sluttery. She’d gone through two sticks of eyeliner, run out of napkins, and then charmed a University of New Haven student at a nearby table into letting us borrow his Macbook so that we could make a spreadsheet. Then she’d started making lists of my friends (I apparently have seven) and pie charts about things like percentage of friends Garen has slept with (fifty-seven percent), which led to percentage of male friends Garen has slept with (eighty percent), and percentage of gay or bisexual male friends Garen has slept with (one hundred percent). I’d shoved her off her chair, and the UNH student had helped her up and asked for her number, and only once he’d left did we realize that he’d taken our pros-and-cons lists with him. All in all, my life for the past two weeks has revolved around this decision. It hasn’t gotten easier, but it has gotten clearer, and it’s fortunate that Travis is smarter than me, because it seems like he’s processing this all a lot faster than I did. “Eight and a half months,” he says, voice slow and even. “January first through September… September twelfth, right?” I nod and slump down on my seat, letting my skull loll back against the headrest. “Yeah. I’ve made it three months already, and we can have another half a month. After that, it’s eight and a half months, and then I’m a year sober. And we can… we’ll figure things out from there, okay?” I don’t dare voice my biggest fears in all of this—that September will come, and I’ll be sober, and he’ll have found someone else. Or he really will have decided he hates Columbia, hates New York, hates living with me, and he’ll have moved to California to go to Stanford or Caltech or something. Or, worst case scenario, that he’ll stay in New York, and we’ll keep living together, and it will be fine, and he’ll still be single, but he just won’t want me anymore. My stomach is twisting up in knots at the thought of it, but I can’t say a word, because there’s no way I’ll be able to get through these next nine months if I let that stay at the forefront of my mind. So instead, I offer my most reassuring smile, tilt my head towards the backseat, and say, “So, making the most of the next two and a half weeks. Wanna start in on that now?” It’s like that starts the clock ticking. He’s out of the car and into the backseat in a matter of seconds, and when I’m slow to follow, he grabs me by the jacket and hauls me between the seats and over the center console. He kisses me, and we have two and a half weeks, but I’m already lonely.

94 days sober

“When are you going to tell me the secret to not sucking at this game?” “When are you going to realize that there is absolutely no skill involved in the game of dreidel?” Mom counters. She has the screen of her laptop tilted down so that the camera is aimed at the table where her dreidel is spinning. I can’t see her face, but she sounds smug as fuck. “Honestly, Garen. You spin a top, it falls over, you do what it says. I don’t think it’s possible to affect the outcome at all, short of not playing it in the first place.” I tilt the screen of my dad’s laptop back up to be sure that she can see how harshly I’m glowering at her. The dreidel lands with gimel facing up, and I groan. She laughs. “Get over it and mark your tally. And you’d better pay up the next time you’re here. Your father told me that you’re going to be moving into your new place on the first?” “Yeah, but we’re heading up the day before,” I say. “Jamie heard about this awesome show—well, I think it’ll be awesome, he thinks it’ll be lame—that some club is hosting to ring in the New Year, and he got tickets for it. So, we’re going up on the thirty-first, parking in the garage below his building overnight, going to the show, crashing at his apartment that night, then driving to the new place the next day.” “And ‘we’ is who? You and Travis?” Mom asks. I nod. “Yeah, and Ben and Alex. They’re helping us move, ‘cause Ben’s dad’s store has a big moving van thing, so we’re gonna fill that with all the shit that won’t fit in my car or Travis’. Besides, it’s only fair, considering that T and I helped them move into their place in August. Well, Travis did. I helped with grocery shopping. But that counts, so—” “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t written down that I just won the pot,” Mom interrupts, eyeing me over the cam. “Skype Dreidel involves too much math,” I grumble, scribbling bitchmom takes whole pot on the piece of paper where I’ve been calculating the current total of money I’ll owe her the next time I see her. I spin my own top and say, “Spinning now.” “Hey, hey,” Mom scolds, “Garen, you tilt that screen right now. I need to be able to see it to be certain you’re not lying about what you land on.” I try to look as offended as possible, but she remains unimpressed. I tilt the screen back down to show my spinning top as I say, “Mom, what the fuck. Do you really think I’d shame our family on this, the first night of Hanukkah, by cheating at Skype Dreidel? I mean, seriously. I’ve got standards.” That’s a lie. I have no standards, and if she wasn’t watching me like a hawk, I’d be cheating every turn. The dreidel lands on shin, and Mom trills, “Shin, shin, put one in,” just like she does every time I fail, every year, because my mom is a dick. “Insert obligatory penis joke here,” I say, practically carving the words my life is a failure -1 onto the paper. “That reminds me, you should open your presents,” Mom says. I pause in the middle of writing. She doesn’t retract her statement. Cautiously, I tilt the screen of the laptop back up so that she can see my raised eyebrows. “Uh. Why the everloving fuck would ‘insert penis joke here’ remind you that I need to open my presents? Mom, did you like—if I open these boxes, are they going to be full of dildos or something? Because I’ve told you before, I’m a top, I don’t need sex toys to—” “Stop talking about your sex life. This is the Festival of Lights, not the Festival of Oversharing,” she interrupts. “Open the one with the white bow, first. Then the blue bow.” I obey, stripping off the shiny silver paper around the first of the two boxes. Inside, I find a sweater. A very soft, very dick-free, navy sweater with a line of dark gray circling the collar and cuffs. “This is really nice, Mom, thanks. I’m having trouble seeing what this has to do with dick jokes, but thank you. Did you get it in the Patton colors on purpose?” She nods. “I though it would make sense to start rebuilding your wardrobe with some basics. Obviously you need to be in School Dress for your classes every day, but during the winter months, you’re allowed to wear a sweater over the rest of your uniform, aren’t you?” I bob my head in agreement. “Yep. School Dress is standard-issue boots, trousers, a polo shirt or an Oxford and tie, and an optional sweater, cardigan, or blazer if it’s cold out. Once I’m up in New York, I’m sure Jamie will drag me out shopping, because I’ve still got my boots and pants and ties, but pretty much none of my shirts fit anymore. Everything’s too tight.” “That’s alright, Garen. I’m sure Travis will still love you, even if you’ve gotten fat,” Mom says, beaming at me. “Fuck off, Mom! I haven’t gotten fat, I’ve gotten bigger. It’s muscle. Once Dad said I’d have to pass all the PT requirements if I wanted to go back to Patton, I changed my whole workout routine. I’ve put on like, fifteen pounds in five weeks, but that’s only about half of what I want to add to my total.” I pause, scowl, and take a sip of the lukewarm coffee I’ve been quietly nursing through this entire chat. “‘Travis will still love you even though you’re fat,’ what the actual fuck. It’s such a good thing you have a son, because a comment like that would totally scar a daughter.” “I doubt an eighteen-year-old girl would be aiming to reach two hundred pounds,” Mom points out. “Of muscle. Two hundred pounds of muscle. That’s not fat, that’s hot—whatever. You’re being mean to me. No wonder I live with Dad, not you,” I say, and she just grins. “Anyway, can I open my other present? I’m still trying to figure out the dick joke punchline.” She claps. “Oh, yes, this is the one. The sweater is lovely, but I know it’s not really your style. I thought this would be much more up your alley.” I tear off the paper, pop open the box, and find myself staring down at a black t-shirt that’s emblazoned with bold white letters spelling out, it’s not going to suck itself. This is my Hanukkah present. From my mother. And yet people are still somehow surprised that I turned out the way I did. “I have the coolest mom in the world, holy shit.” “Mm,” Mom hums her agreement. “I saw another one that would’ve amused you more. It was sort of a heather gray, and it said in black writing, ‘ask your girlfriend how my dick tastes.’ I couldn’t find one that said ‘ask your boyfriend,’ though.” “That’s a pity,” I sigh. “I thought so, too,” she says, reaching past the laptop and returning to the frame with a gray t-shirt that she holds up to show me. “So, I had one made special. You can have it as soon as you give me my winnings from tonight. Happy Hanukkah, Garen.” Coolest mom ever.101 days sober

Successfully completing my last two final exams—well, completing my English final, then playing Angry Birds for two hours while pretending to supervise the freshman taking their Music History final—and, by association, successfully completing my time at Lakewood High School leaves me rocking such a buzz that I don’t immediately realize that the door to Ben and Alex’s apartment is locked when I show up to harass them. Instead, I sort of… try to turn the handle, then crash face-first into the wood. “Okay, ow, fuck you guys,” I call through the door. I can hear what sounds like muffled machine gunfire from inside, so I’m assuming that if I can hear Alex playing video games in the living room, he can hear me hating him in the hallway. “Since when do you lock your door while you’re here?” “I’ll be there in a second,” he shouts back, but patience has never been my strong suit. I flip through my keys until I find the one that Ben gave me back in September and let myself in. I fully intend to go pace in front of the television until Alex dies in the game, just so that he knows I’m pissed at him for daring to lock his own door, but that turns out to be unnecessary—the fact that I’ve got a key makes him do a double-take just long enough for someone to take his character out with a clean headshot. “Dude, since when can you get into my apartment without my permission?” “Since the day your roommate was dumb enough to give me a key,” I say, twirling it around my finger. “Pretty sure I earned it with rimjobs.” “Pretty sure you didn’t,” Ben says, wandering down the hall to join us in the living room. “Why are you here?” I flop down on the couch next to Al and kick my feet up onto the coffee table. “So that you can both congratulate me on finally joining you among the ranks of people who no longer attend LHS. Come on, I’ll take you guys out for lunch or something. Like, a super late lunch, because it’s already uh, two in the afternoon, but whatever, it still counts. Plus, you guys need to show me your driver’s licenses so that I can send pictures of them to Jamie.” “Why?” Ben asks. “World’s weirdest jerk-off material,” I say. A beat passes, then I roll my eyes. “Because neither of you has a fake ID, right? I mean, I know for a fact that you don’t, Ben, because you’re you. And Alex, you’re marginally less of a loser, but I still doubt you’ve got one. The venue that’s hosting the thing we’re going to on New Year’s is a twenty-one-plus place, so even if you’re not drinking, you need a fake. I don’t know anybody around here who can get quality ones made up in a week’s time, which means Jamie’s going to just go to the guy who made ours. I used to bang a guy who works at the DMV; he makes them there when no one’s looking, and he uses all the same information, just a different birthdate. Come to think of it, this is probably more illegal than some shady guy who makes them in his own basement? But whatever. They work great.” Ben frowns over at the wallet he has left sitting on the coffee table, like he can’t figure out which is more important: maintaining his streak of not committing felonies, or attending the shockingly rad show that Jamie managed to get us all tickets to. I’d been sort of surprised that Jamie, whose taste in music can be generously described as “unbelievably shitty,” had been able to recognize the awesomeness of the all-night show when he’d seen a poster for it while waiting for the subway. Well. He sort of recognized it. Mostly he called me, sighed, and said, “I’m looking at a sign for a some kind of concert that’s being held on New Year’s Eve, at one of those disgusting dives you like so much. You know, the ones that are full of tattooed hipsters, the stench of stale PBR, and that uncomfortable stinging sensation I feel as my dignity leaves my body? There are five bands listed here, I’ve never heard of any of them, and I’m pretty sure most of these names are supposed to be ironic. It seems horrible, but I can get us tickets for it, if you promise you’ll come to the Vineyard for two weeks this summer with my family. My father keeps trying to use the trip as an excuse for me to get back together with Addison, but she’s completely insane, and I’d really rather not. So. Two tickets? Three, if you want to bring Travis? Five, if you decide you hate me and insist on bringing Alexander and the midget?” I’d said five, and he’d grunted and hung up on me, but he’d still gotten the tickets. Now, to spare Ben the aneurysm he seems pretty close to suffering over this fake-IDs-aren’t-sanctioned-by-my-church-or-my-mom issue, I snatch up his wallet, dig out his license, and snap the clearest picture I can get with my phone. I send it to Jamie, and after a few minutes, he replies, He looks like a toddler in that picture. I’ll get the ID made, but I doubt anyone will believe he’s any older than sixteen. Good Lord, I need to get a higher standard of sexual partners. “Jamie says your picture is so gorgeous that he doesn’t know whether to beat off or sob over the soul-shattering beauty of your visage,” I lie. “But, uh, you also look kind of young? Both in the picture and in real life. So, maybe you should not shave for a few days. Grow yourself some hipster scruff so you look a couple years older.” “You guys only say I look young because I’m short,” Ben whines. “I’m almost nineteen years old, and I look it.” “Of course you do, bro. Totally,” I soothe him, even though that’s just another lie. I turn towards Alex, who has been studiously massacring people on the xbox. I nudge his shoulder. “Come on, dude. Where’s your wallet?” “My room. Doesn’t matter, though, considering I’m not going with you guys,” he says. I blink. Only now do I realize that his jaw is set; clearly he’s anticipating some sort of argument from me, even though right now, all I can manage to come up with is, “You’re not—wait, what?” He raises his eyebrows at me, like I’m the one who’s being ridiculous. I feel a pinch of annoyance in the back of my mind, and I have to take a deep breath to calm myself before I continue speaking. “You’re seriously not going?” “Stohler’s going to this party out in Hartford with some of her friends from college, and she asked me to go with her,” Alex says, jamming his thumb down on the A button of his controller. “It seemed like it’d be more fun than the show, so I said yeah.” Ben is hovering halfway between the kitchen and the living room, looking like he’d love nothing more than to make a break for it to escape the tension in the room. It’s an understandable impulse; I’ve got no idea what I’m supposed to say right now, especially since it’s obvious that this conversation isn’t going to get any less uncomfortable. He and I stare at each other for a long moment while he edges closer to the kitchen and I use the tip of my tongue to play around with my lip ring. Finally, I clear my throat and say, “I thought we settled this plan weeks ago. We were going to pack up all the shit, go to the show, crash at Jamie’s, then—” The second I mention Jamie’s name, the muscles around Alex’s mouth go even tighter. A wave of realization hits me, and that pinch of annoyance gets ramped up to full-blown fury. I bang my feet back down onto the floor, stand up, and stride past Ben into the kitchen, snapping over my shoulder, “I’m getting unbelievably sick of this shit, dude.” “Sick of what shit?” Alex demands. “So I don’t want to go to New York for New Year’s, big goddamn deal.” “So Jamie won’t sleep with you anymore, big goddamn deal,” I shoot back. I yank open the refrigerator door and steal one of the Snapple bottles. “I mean, that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You’re pissed that he got tired of you stringing him along and decided to stick with Rachael instead of you. And I’m sorry, dude, but get over it. He asked you out repeatedly, and you said no every time, so he moved on. You can’t act like he dumped you, you can’t pretend to be the wronged party, and you sure as hell can’t throw a temper tantrum any time you have to hang out with him. If he can nut up enough to be civil to you even though you’re the one who treated him like shit, you should—” “What are you talking about? I didn’t treat him like shit!” “You sort of did,” Ben says quietly. I stumble right back out of the kitchen to stare at him, because seriously, since when does he defend Jamie? Alex is gaping at him from the couch, mind similarly blown. Ben frowns down at his hands and says, “Look, I hate James more than anyone, but this group we’re all in? It’s incestuous. You and James, me and Travis, you and Travis at that party last winter. And Garen has slept with all of us, at some point or another—” “Rude,” I mutter. “True,” Ben retorts, though his voice immediately softens again as he continues saying to Alex, “The point is, if everyone stopped talking to each other when they stopped hooking up, none of us would be friends anymore. If the rest of us can be cool with each other, and if James is enough… God, never tell him I said this, but if James is enough of a gentleman to say that it’s alright for you and I to spend New Year’s at his place, even though he doesn’t really want either of us there, then you should return that level of civility. It’s not fair for you to… draw battle lines, I guess. Not when they’re going to make Garen and Travis uncomfortable.” The second I can get my phone out without getting punched, I’m going to text Jamie and tell him that ‘gentleman’ bit; at the very least, it’ll amuse him, and at the very most, he’ll be flattered enough that he’ll suck Ben’s dick to show his appreciation when we’re in the city next week. But for now, I’m just grateful that Ben’s bothering to try to put a stop to this bullshit. I lean against the kitchen doorframe and hitch my chin at him. “Thank you.” “Shut up. I’m not saying this to benefit you; I’m saying it because it needs to be said.” He finally raises his gaze to meet Alex’s. For a moment, they just eye each other warily. Then Ben swallows and murmurs, “I also think it was unfair for you to, um. Keep sleeping with him, after you realized that he was looking for a higher degree of commitment than you were. You should have ended the physical relationship and told him that you weren’t interested in him, or that you were interested in… in someone else.” These are the words that make Alex finally set down his xbox controller and let his head loll against the back of the couch, though his eyes remain fixed on Ben’s face. “Are you sure you’re not just pissed that it took me so long to tell you I was interested in ‘someone else’?” “That’s not the issue, and you know it—” “What I know is that you’ve been avoiding me for weeks now, ever since you found out that I’m in love with you,” Alex snaps. “And honestly? I think it’s because you’re scared. I think you’re so used to being with guys who treat you like shit, you have no idea how to handle the fact that you’ve got someone who’s interested in treating you well. You give me shit for how things went down with James, but it’s not like I was trying to be an asshole. I was waiting for you—” “Yeah, and that’s awesome, except I never asked you to wait for me!” Ben explodes, startling even me with his forcefulness. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that you’re in love with me, and I’m sorry if there’s anything I did to make you think that you and I were ever going to be together, and I’m sorry if I’ve been distant or weird these past couple of weeks, but for fuck’s sake, man, I don’t know how to be sorry for the fact that I’m not in love with you.” “But you won’t even consider it!” Alex protests. “I mean, Christ, you’re so—you and I could be good together. Believe me, I’ve thought about this for so long, and it’s—we could be good together, if you were just willing to try. I don’t get why you won’t give me a chance—” I groan loudly and drag a hand through my hair. “Seriously, dude? Do I have to buy you a copy of He’s Just Not That Into You? Because I know it’s for chicks, but I think it’ll help you understand this situation. You sound like me, when I was trying to convince Travis to get back together with me last spring, but at least Travis actually loved me back. And I had the excuse of being on a crapload of drugs at the time. Your only excuse is this creepy refusal to accept that you’ve been in the fucking Friend Zone since you were like, fourteen.” “Garen, either shut up, or get out of my apartment,” Alex orders. I’m already midway through an internal debate about whether to leave as ordered when Ben shakes his head, grabs his wallet off the coffee table, and says, “No, this is—I think I’m going to go. My classes for this semester are already over, and Christmas Eve is on Sunday, and I just—I think I’m going to pack my stuff and go home for a couple of days, okay?” “Ben,” Alex says, like he’s a step away from pleading, but Ben just shakes his head and disappears down the hall to his bedroom. Neither Alex nor I say a single word during the five minutes it takes for Ben to pack some clothes, some books, and his laptop, and he doesn’t say a single word when he leaves. By the time the door has slammed and his footsteps have retreated down the hall to the stairs, there’s not much left I can do except turn to Alex and say, “If you keep doing this, you’re going to ruin your friendship with him. You’re going to lose all of him, for good.” Alex sighs. “Garen, just leave.” So I leave.110 days sober

“If someone had asked me yesterday if I was excited about the prospect of living with you, I would have said yes. But now, I think I just want you to die.” Travis slumps sideways against the interior wall of the truck, shoving his sweat-dampened hair off his forehead and securing it with his backwards ball cap. “Seriously, why do you own so much shit? And why doesn’t Ben have to help?” I give one last hard shove to the flat box that houses the pieces of our Ikea… entertainment center? Kitchen table? My bed frame? I have no idea, all of the boxes look identical to me. And all of them are loaded, so I don’t get why Travis is still bitching. I show my disapproval of his attitude by flinging a leg out and kicking him in the shin. “Half of this stuff is for common areas, not just me, so quit whining. And Ben doesn’t have to help because it’s not his stuff.” “I’m already taking today and tomorrow off work to help you idiots move. You should be grateful,” Ben says. I hop back out of the truck to sit down next to him on the bumper; my feet are planted firmly on the ground, but his are dangling a few inches above it, emphasized by the fact that he’s swinging them back and forth. He looks like a little kid—or, he might, if he hadn’t taken my advice and blown off shaving for a couple days to grow in a pretty sick five o’clock shadow. He nudges my elbow and adds, “Are you sure there’s even enough clearance for this to fit in the garage under your douchebag friend’s building?” “Yep,” I say, letting the word come out as a pop. “He called the building management to ask. They have your name and the truck description, too, so you should be set to park just fine. Honestly, I think half the spaces in the garage are unused anyway. Most people who live in the city don’t have cars.” “Does James?” Travis asks, joining us on the bumper. I nod without speaking, because I’m pretty sure they’ll both roll their eyes at me if I tell them that Jamie trades in his Cadillac Escalade every twelve months so that he’s always driving one from the current model year. Instead, I twist around to stare into the mostly-filled truck. “Once I bring out my amp and the boxes of clothes, I think we’re good to go.” “Perhaps I’m missing something—and if the answer involves you two spooning each other, please spare me—but aren’t you missing a mattress?” Ben asks. “Got a new one. It’s getting delivered right to our place tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon,” I say. “I was going to just bring the one I’ve got here, but I need to keep my bed, because I’m going to be coming back every other Saturday for therapy, and I might stay the night sometimes. So, uh, are either of you going to help me with the rest of the stuff?” Neither of them even bothers to respond to me. They just turn to each other and start talking about some boring-ass History Channel show they apparently watched together at Ben’s house a few days ago. I roll my eyes and let the sounds of their dullness chase me back into the house. Dad is hovering in the living room, carefully adjusting the two cardboard boxes that hold my clothes. He glances up at me and asks, “Want me to bring these out while you get your amp from downstairs?” “Yeah, that’d be great,” I say, heading for the stairs. By the time I get back up with the amp, Dad has dropped both the clothes boxes off in the truck and is idling in the doorway. He glances at me, pokes his head back outside, and yells, “Travis, come get this last thing, then close up the truck.” “I can carry it, Dad,” I say. “I know you can, but I want to talk to you for a minute,” he replies. I meet Travis on the porch to carefully hand off the amp, then let my dad steer me back into the house. I’m expecting some emotional father-son moment, maybe some gruff, manly affection. Possibly a few tears. But what I get is Dad grinning at me and sounding nothing short of ecstatic as he says, “You’re moving out.” “You know, you could at least pretend to be sad that your only child is leaving the nest,” I grumble. “You don’t have to look so gleeful.” “Garen, between going to boarding school the first time, running away twice, and going to rehab, you’ve ‘left the nest’ four times already. I’m gleeful because this particular departure isn’t going to end in tragedy and despair. Besides, you’re going to be back in just a few weeks anyway. It’s not like I won’t ever see you again.” My eyebrows draw together. “Then what do you want to talk to me a—” “I’m proud of you,” Dad interrupts. I blink. He clears his throat, smile now smoothed away into a calmer expression. “I don’t think I tell you that enough. And I don’t think you… believe it, most of the time. I know that we’ve had our problems in the past—” “Like that time you sent me to military school because I set the pool house on fire,” I say, starting to tick things off on my fingers. “Or the time you kicked me out of the house. Or the time—” “You know, it’s very possible that this is why we never have heart-to-heart conversations,” Dad says, frowning at me. “Can you shut up for a minute, please?” I mime zipping my lips. “Thank you. I know that we’ve had our problems, and I know that sometimes, I act like the bad things you’ve done will always overshadow the good. But I want you to know that I am… in awe of the way you’ve turned out, and of the man you’re growing up to be. The changes you’ve made in the past few months, the progress you’ve made—god, Garen, even the fact that you had the self-awareness to realize that you needed to leave Lakewood? I’m so proud of you for that. This is what I always knew you were capable of, and being your father is a—” “Oh my god, I feel like we’re in that last scene of Mulan,” I say, rolling my eyes towards the ceiling. I’m trying not to take this too seriously, because I can already feel that embarrassing pinch in my tear ducts, and for a pretty masculine dude, I cry like, a lot. Most people just cry when they’re sad, or hurt, but I cry when I’m feeling too happy, too tired, too safe, too loved, too anything. I tear up over really good songs. I panic and sob into the telephone and donate hundreds of dollars every time I see one of those commercials with the one-eyed kittens and limping, disease-ridden dogs and the Sarah McLachlan music. I once had to hide in Ben’s bedroom for twenty minutes because his sisters made me watch Lilo & Stitch with them, and I fucking lost it because his family was little and broken, but still good. Right now, I can’t tell if my dad is thrown by the fact that I’m looking super emotional, or if he just doesn’t get the Mulan reference. “You know, after she blows up the palace with the fireworks—because sometimes kids accidentally blow up buildings with fireworks, but it doesn’t mean we’re bad people or need to be sent to boarding school—but she, like… she comes back with the sword and that medal thing? And she gives them to Fa Zhou?” Dad keeps staring, so for good measure, I adopt an admittedly racist accent and quote, “The greatest gift and honor is having you for a daughter.” Dad closes his eyes and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, like that will do anything to ward off the shame of having an eighteen-year-old son who can’t stop quoting Disney movies. “Thank you, Garen. I was worried that we were getting too close to having an actual bonding experience. You know, like adults?” “Just trying to keep things light,” I say, but then… whatever, fuck it. I fling an arm around his neck and bury my face against his shoulder so that my voice is mostly muffled when I say, “Love you, Dad.” “You, too,” he says. The hug lasts about five seconds, and then we both step back, a little awkward, a little embarrassed. He claps me on the shoulder and adds, “Make sure you drive safely, alright? No screwing around with the radio, no texting, no racing strangers at stoplights. Text me when you get to James’ apartment so I know you made it there. And look out for your friends tonight. They’ve both lived in Lakewood their whole lives, they’re not used to big cities like you are—” “Bullshit, Ben lives in New Haven now,” I protest. “New Haven is still a third of the size of the city you grew up in, and a tenth of the size of Manhattan. Besides, I know how you and James get once you’re together. I don’t want to have to explain to Travis’ mother or Ben’s parents that my son finally got theirs killed.” “Finally? The fuck do you mean, finally? Has there been some sort of pool going on how long it would be before I accidentally offed one of them? And whatever, it doesn’t matter. Ben’s parents have like, fifty other kids, they wouldn’t even notice he was gone, and Travis’ mom hates him anyway—ow, fuck, stop that!” I snap, dodging the light punches that Dad is landing to my shoulder. “God, I was just joking. Fuck you, man, I’m glad I’m moving out.” Dad sighs—fondly, I think—then hands me the backpack I’ve left on the couch and pushes me towards the door. “Just go.” When I step outside, the truck is closed up, but the guys are still just hanging out on the back bumper. I leap off the porch and shout, “Come on, you lazy sons of whores! It’s like, two hours into the city even without factoring in the ridiculous holiday traffic we’re going to deal with. Get your asses up, we’re leaving.” They still take their sweet time standing up, making sure they’ve both got the right address for the building, chattering back and forth about how they’ll both probably need to stop for gas at some point. I roll my eyes and stomp around until they both turn towards their vehicles, and then I remember something else I’ve been meaning to do. “Hey, wait a second,” I say, catching Travis by the wrist. “I, um. I have something for you, I guess. It’s not really a bit deal, I just want to give it to you for, uh… you know, the drive, or whatever.” I dig his present out of my backpack but pause, turning to glare at Ben, who is standing there, watching me like a sex offender. “Do you mind, bro? I’m trying to have a moment here.” “I know, that’s why I’m still standing here. You spent two months lurking around and ruining my life when I was dating Travis last spring, so consider this payback,” he says, smirking. “So, what are you giving him?” “Here,” I grunt, shoving the CD case at Travis even though my glare is still fixed on Ben. Ben doesn’t even bother to hold back his laughter. “Seriously? You burned him a mixed CD? “It’s sort of a thing,” Travis tries to explain. I think he’s attempting to help me out, but mostly he’s making me look even more lame. “He makes me mixed CDs; they have themes based on the first track.” “What’s the theme of this one?” Ben asks, leaning against the side of my car. I shove him off it.

“If I made you a themed mix, the first track would be ‘Short People Got No Reason To Live,’ by Randy Newman,” I snap. He just continues to smile blandly at me until I sigh, “‘Going Away to College,’ by blink-182.” Travis holds up the CD, on which I’ve written I haven’t been this scared in a long time in black Sharpie.

I throw an arm around his shoulder and steer him towards the driver’s door of the truck, ducking down to hiss into his ear, “Better than the kindergarten, pigtail-pulling bullshit you and Jamie have got going on right now. I swear to god, the second I get back to my car, I’m going to call him and tell him that you made him a mixed CD, and the first track is ‘Every Breath You Take,’ by The Police. I’m going to tell him you listen to it on repeat on your iPod while you hide on the roof of the apartment building across from his so you can peer through his windows with a telescope.”

“How am I the one pulling his pigtails, if you’re the one who keeps shoving us at each other?” he demands.

“I’m not shoving you at each other. I’m trying to make sure that you’re still getting laid even though you and I have broken up, and I’m trying to make sure that he doesn’t turn too hetero now that he’s banging some chick on the regular. This would be shoving you,” I say, planting both hands on his back, heaving him up into the driver’s seat of the truck, and slamming the door. He spends a few seconds sneering at me through the window before he turns his attention to programming Jamie’s address into the GPS. I wander back to where Travis is waiting, still holding that stupid CD. I wince. “Yeah. So, he might have a point? I’m sorry, sometimes I forget that mixed CDs are sort of—” Travis grabs me by the front of my jacket and drags me in for a kiss. I don’t know if he intends to keep it short, but I sure as hell don’t—I’ve got approximately nineteen hours left until I’m supposed to give him up for at least the next nine months, and I plan to spend every one of those hours taking as much as he’s willing to let me have. I reach up and push the cap off his head so I can tangle a hand in his short hair, anchoring him to me and backing him up against my car. His hands are still clenched into fists around my jacket, like he’s as reluctant to let go of what we’ve got as I am. Still, he breaks the kiss and murmurs, “Ben’s a douchebag, ignore him. I like the CD, okay? I’m going to listen to it on the drive to the city, and later tonight, I’m going to show you my appreciation.” I grin against his lips and says, “Sounds like a good plan to me.” By now, Ben has started the truck, pulled out of the driveway, and circled around so that he can roll down the window and say, in that constantly-bored tone he’s got, “So, are you guys coming? Or are you just going to stand around making out in the driveway all evening? Because I’d usually head out without you guys, but I don’t want to show up at James’ place and have to interact with him without you guys as a buffer.” “If I’d known you were such a cockblock, I wouldn’t have become friends with you in the first place,” I say, but the mention of Jamie has ratcheted up my excitement for tonight. I grab Travis’ hat from where it’s fallen on the roof of my car, toss it back to him, and open my door. “Alright, alright. We’re going.” Ben taps his horn once in acknowledgment before pulling away from the curb, and Travis gives me one more kiss before heading over to his own car. I’m right about the time it takes to make the drive to the city—it’s a little after five when I pull out of the driveway, but I don’t make the last turn down into the garage under Jamie’s building until quarter after eight. Travis is already there, parked next to the shiny black Cadillac with Georgia plates, though I’ve got no idea if it’s coincidence, or if he saw Jamie’s car the last time he was here. I pull into the space on his other side, cut the engine, and get out. “Ben not here yet?” I say. He shrugs. “Nope. I assume he’s either driving really carefully, or he crashed into someone. Driving in Manhattan probably sucks even for people who are used to it, and he’s never driven in the city before.” I blink. “He hasn’t?” “No?” Travis says slowly. “Dude, this is literally the second time he’s ever been to New York, and he took the train in for his Juilliard audition last year.” “This is the sort of shit people need to tell me before I make my plans,” I groan. “I can’t believe we had him drive a fucking moving van when he’s never driven in the city before. He should have told me; I would’ve driven the truck, had you drive my Ferrari, and gotten him to drive your car. Dude’s probably going to—” I trail off then, because thankfully, the van has just pulled into the garage. Ben backs it carefully into a space halfway across the level, away from any of the other cars. When he tumbles out of the cab, he looks traumatized. “It’s official: only people from Connecticut know how to drive properly. New Yorkers are fucking horrifying. I’m never coming back here.” “You crash into anybody or anything?” I prompt. He shakes his head. “You kill anybody?” Another shake of the head. “Then quit your bitching, and let’s go up.” Because I don’t have a key to the doors that lead from the garage to the inside of the building, we have to get buzzed in. I press the intercom button for Jamie’s place, wait a few seconds, and then-- “What the fuck do you want?” he snarls through the speaker with such perfectly feigned ferocity that Travis actually takes a step back. I jam my thumb against the button again and snap back, “Have some fucking manners, you cunt!” The speaker clicks in on his laughter, and he says, “Thank God. It was a fifty-fifty shot on whether I’d be screaming at you or the Thai food delivery boy, and I doubt he’d find it as amusing as you would.” Holding down the button again, I exaggerate a moan. “Fucking hell, you ordered Thai? You really do love me. Get your dick out, I’m going to give you a great big, deep-throated ‘thank you’ when I get up there. Now buzz us in, this garage is fuckin’ freezing.” The lock clicks open. “You two say the most inappropriate things to each other,” Travis says. I grin and lace my fingers with his, leading the way through the marble-floored lobby to the elevators. The quick ride up to Jamie’s floor passes in what I assume to be a comfortable silence, until I bother to glance around; Travis looks perfectly calm, but Ben’s gaze is flickering all around the elevator, taking in the spotless mirrored walls and perfectly polished brass handrail, shifting in place like he can’t figure out how the hell he got here, or if he’s allowed to touch anything. Sometimes, I forget that he’s not used to places like this, or nights like the one we might end up having tonight, or people like Jamie. People like me, I guess. I knock my shoulder against his and say, “Dude, chill the fuck out. It’s an apartment building, not a museum. You can breathe without them calling security.” “My building doesn’t have security,” Ben says quietly. “Our security is pretty much centered on the concept that the building doesn’t even look like it would be worth breaking into. This place looks like a hotel.” “Only without all the gross tourists!” I say brightly. The bell chimes, and the doors slide open. I bound out of the elevator and down the hall to Jamie’s door. It’s locked, of course. I pull out my keys, then shrug when they both shoot me curious looks. “I collect keys from all my favorite sexual partners, apparently,” I explain. I start flicking through my keyring, pointing to each one and listing off, “Ben’s apartment. Travis’ house. New place with Travis. And here we go, Jamie’s apartment.” I unlock the door and burst into the apartment. Jamie is lying on the couch, head turned to face the Macbook that’s open on the coffee table. I’m pretty sure he’s Skyping with Rachael, because I can hear a voice that sounds like hers coming from the computer. He raises a hand to wave to me without bothering to sit up, and that does absolutely nothing to assuage my craving for attention. I dart across the apartment and fling myself down on top of him, ignoring his groan at my weight and burying my face against his neck. “Hi.” “Hi,” he echoes, digging a hand into my hair and tugging gently until I raise my face to his and plant a kiss on his lips. He lets me linger for a moment before he nudges me back enough to speak. “Say hello to Rachael.” “Hello to Rachael,” I say, peeking over at the screen. Rachael grins at me and offers a little wave. “Hi, Garen. Should I hit record? This seems like it’s heading into sex tape territory, and Mama needs to pay off her student loans. I bet I could make a lot of money off of you two.” I open my mouth to tell her that Jamie and I have already made at least three sex tapes, but Jamie—presumably because he knows what I’m about to say—covers my mouth with his palm and says, “Not likely. Travis and the littlest emo are here, too. Do you mind if I sign off for now? I can text you later, if you’d like.” “Nah, I don’t want to disrupt your activities for the night. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow,” Rachael says, waving him off. “Alright. Happy early New Year. If you can’t be sure that one of your friends is going to be sober tonight, make sure you take a cab home from your friend’s party,” he says. She rolls her eyes, but nods anyway. He smiles. “Y’all have fun tonight.” “You, too. Bye! Love you!” Oh, Jesus. I hate it when Jamie’s significant others say that to him. I hide my face against his neck once more so that she won’t be able to see my judging eyes. But Jamie takes it in stride and simply says, “Thanks. Goodnight,” and signs off. Before I can say anything, Travis appears next to the couch and, after letting Jamie tug him down to our level to give him a kiss on the cheek in greeting, says, “Did you seriously just say ‘thank you’ in response to your girlfriend saying she loves you?” “Well, I’m not going to say it back, am I?” Jamie says, looking revolted at the very idea of it. “Good Lord. I’ve only known the girl for three months. She’s just—” he waves a dismissive hand towards the computer, “—started saying that occasionally. And she’s perfectly accepting of my refusal to reciprocate. I’ve already explained to her that I don’t throw that phrase around.” To my understanding, Jamie has only ever said the words ‘I love you’ to three people: his parents and me. It’s been a point of contention with every girlfriend or boyfriend he has ever had, and usually, his relationships end when the other person loses their shit and starts crying, why won’t you tell me you love me? Jamie’s baffled response of because I don’t usually gets him slapped across the face. Still, I have to respect his commitment to never saying those words unless he means them. “You love me, though, right?” I say, voice slightly muffled by the fact that my mouth is still bumping up against his throat. “Right,” he agrees. I smile against his skin, because I’m so fucking nervous about moving out here, being on my own, going back to Patton, being further away from my dad and Doc and the people I’m not supposed to know but am still used to seeing at my Narcotics Anonymous meetings. So much is changing at once, and I’m terrified by it all, but being closer to Jamie makes it easier. It makes me feel safer. “And you missed me, right?” “Right.” “Guys. You saw each other three weeks ago,” Travis says. I mumble an objection, which he interprets enough to amend, “Alright, four. You saw each other four weeks ago, and I’d be willing to bet everything I own that you’ve talked every single day since then. This is a warmer welcome than I got when G came back to Lakewood after four months in hiding.” I raise my head. “That’s such a lie. I totally gave you a hug when I came back. And like, made out with you. Consider yourself lucky, because my greeting to Ben was to say ‘bite me’ and then put my tongue in his boyfriend’s mouth.” “Mm. Thanks for that, by the way,” Ben says. He’s still lingering awkwardly near the doorway, eyes darting from the leather furniture to the pristine white carpets, to the state-of-the-art appliances in the kitchen, to… well, to Jamie himself, pinned underneath me and looking every bit as beautiful and expensive as the apartment he lives in. A half-second passes in silence, and I try not to grin over the fact that, the last time they saw each other, Jamie was balls-deep in Ben’s ass, in the passenger seat of my car. Ben hunches his shoulders up and jams his hands into his pockets, hitching his chin at Jamie even though his eyes are fixed on the floor. “Hey. Thanks for having me.” I chuckle. Jamie hits me; Ben flushes. “Over. Thanks for having me over, for letting me crash here tonight.” “Don’t mention it,” Jamie says. The intercom next to the door buzzes. “That’ll be the food. Get the hell off me, G. My wallet’s in the bowl on the credenza—buzz the man in and pay him. I’m just going to go put this away.” He gestures to his Macbook. I roll to my feet to receive the delivery, paying the delivery guy with a few bucks from Jamie’s wallet and a few from mine. When I turn around, Jamie has returned from his bedroom, and for a very long moment, we just stare at each other. Finally, we both say at once, “I’m not going out with you, if that’s what you’re wearing.” Travis snorts. “Can it, Hat Boy,” Jamie says, pointing a finger at him in warning before he turns his attention back to me. “It’s not going to suck itself? Are you fucking kidding me? Where do you even get a shirt that appalling?” “My mom bought me this shirt for Hanukkah!” I protest, which earns another snort. “Besides, dude, we’re going to a fucking show out in Brooklyn.” “So?” “So I’m not letting you leave this building wearing a five-hundred-dollar argyle sweater!” I say, my voice squeaking a little with my hysteria. “God, I’ve got half a mind to beat you up myself, just on principle. Whatever, we’ll fight this out after we eat, I’m starving.” Travis takes the two bags of takeout containers from me and brings them into the kitchen. “James, which cabinet are your plates in?” “Above the toaster, to the left of the fridge,” Jamie replies. “And I got a mix of everything, wasn’t sure what people would want. Do any of y’all want drinks?” “Do you have pop?” I ask, wandering into the kitchen and hopping up to sit on the counter. Ben trails after me, but he still looks out of place, uncomfortable, so I snag the sleeve of his hoodie and drag him closer until he pulls himself up to sit in the space between me and the sink. Jamie opens the refrigerator door and steps to the side so that I can see the selection of cans inside. “Grab me a root beer.” I elbow Ben. “Diet Coke, yeah?” “Yes, please,” Ben says. Jamie grabs a few cans, and I reach for one, but he bats me away and lines them up on the counter before retrieving four glasses from one of the cabinets. “Fuck off for a minute, G. I’m serving you, be patient.” He drops four ice cubs into each of the first three glasses, refills the ice tray and returns it to the freezer, then drops another four cubes from a second tray into the final glass. “Patience really isn’t my strong suit. But I’ll consider making it my New Year’s Resolution to learn some,” I say. Travis hands me a plate that’s been loaded down with a little sampling of everything. “Do you have a real one?” I raise my eyebrows, and he clarifies, “A real resolution.” “To quit smoking again,” I say, making a face. He looks thrilled, so I poke him with the wrong end of my fork. “Don’t get too excited. I’m not doing it because I want to. It’s for PT at Patton—we have to run a couple of miles every morning, and it’ll be easier if my lungs are in better shape. What about you?” “To get back in touch with my dad,” he says, shrugging. “Talk to him more often. Meet my stepmom and my half-brothers. Maybe go out to Portland and visit? I don’t know. I think it’d be nice to have at least one parent who I can still talk to, and since Mom’s out…” Jamie finishes filling one of the glasses with water and hands it to him. “How does she feel about you moving out?” Travis laughs. “I sat her down about two weeks ago and told her that I was graduating early. She was thrilled. Then I told her I was moving to New York with Garen so that I could go to Columbia. She threw a lamp at me and said, ‘don’t you dare expect there to still be a place for you in this family when he goes back to using drugs and you have to move out again.’ Sweet woman, my mother.” He shakes his head, then hitches his chin at Jamie. “What about you, dude? Any resolutions?” Jamie scoffs. “I don’t need any. I’m flawless the way I am.” “You could resolve to spend less money on ugly sweaters,” Ben suggests. “Shut up, Fun Size,” Jamie says, passing me my glass of root beer. Then, tone shifting into a taunting lilt that brings out his accent even more, he adds, “What’s yours? To stop riding in cars with boys?” “To stop riding boys in cars,” Ben corrects. The can of diet coke slips from Jamie’s hand and hits the edge of the sink, bouncing, flipping, and splattering its contents all over the counter, Jamie’s sweater, and pretty much all of Ben. Jamie blinks at the can, then down at his sweater. The denim over Ben’s thigh is soaked through, as is the sleeve of his hoodie, and a decent portion of the t-shirt he’s wearing under it. He scowls down at his clothes, then at Jamie’s face. “Thanks for that, man.” “I’m sorry,” Jamie says. “It was an—my hand slipped. I’ll get you a towel.” “I’ve got a change of clothes in the truck, I’ll go get them. Give me your keys so I don’t have to get buzzed back in,” Ben sighs, holding out his hand. Jamie gestures past him. “Same dish my wallet was in, near the door.” Ben shoots him one last glare before clambering down from the counter, careful to avoid the puddle on the floor. Travis and I have the grace to wait until he has left the apartment to start laughing. Jamie snatches up a roll of paper towels and starts sopping up the pop. “Shut up, the both of y’all. The can slipped, it’s not a big deal.” “And I’m supposed to believe it had nothing to do with the comment he made?” I say. Travis clasps both his hands to his chest in a comical expression of relief. “Does this mean we can finally stop pretending that James doesn’t have a creepy, stalkery crush on Ben? Because after the whole Alex thing this past summer, I’m getting so sick of having to pretend that I don’t notice—” “I don’t have a crush on him!” Jamie interrupts. “Why in the hell would you think that?” “Because of what just happened,” Travis says, beginning to tick his words off on his fingers. “Because of the sketchy way you two never blink when you look at each other. Because of that stupid Christmas card you sent him. Because of whatever went down during that half-hour ‘conversation’—” I hide a grin at the fact that he actually uses air-quotes, “—you two had at the diner that one time. Do I need to keep going? Because I feel like that’ll just make things more awkward for everyone.” Truth be told, I’m still a few clicks behind. I say, “I asked you if that Christmas card was from you, and you sent me a picture of it!” “And where was I when I sent that picture?” Travis prompts, though he answers his own question with a sweeping gesture towards the rest of the apartment. I round on Jamie, who has dropped to the floor to finish cleaning up the spilled drink. I kick him in the leg. “Dude. Dude. Are you fucking kidding me right now? You sent him a dorky, anonymous Poe card? That’s so weird. Oh my god, I can’t believe you actually like him. I thought you just wanted to get on him—” “I don’t like him!” Jamie snaps, flinging the paper towels into the trash and standing up again so that he can scrub his hands clean at the sink. “For Christ’s sake, y’all are being ridiculous right now. I barely tolerate the guy. He’s annoying, judgmental, pretentious, and, quite frankly, a little strange-looking.” “Strange-looking?” I echo, raising my eyebrows. Jamie whirls around to point at me. “He’s got eyes like a house-elf and a mouth like a porn star. It’s not natural, alright?” Of course, these are the words that are coming out of his mouth when the apartment door swings open again. Ben just kind of stands there for a few seconds, blinking at us and gnawing on his bottom lip. Finally, if only to break the tension, I say, “You’re definitely right about the porn star mouth, but I’ve got no idea what a house elf is.” “It’s a Harry Potter thing,” Ben says slowly. “They have eyes like, um—” He shoulders his backpack and forms each of his hands into large circles, holding them up in front of his eyes like goggles, presumably to indicate the largeness of the eyes in question. “I need to start sleeping with cooler people,” I sigh. Travis clears his throat and does his best to help out by saying, “You get your clothes?” Ben gestures to the backpack. “Yeah. I mean, I got a clean shirt. I don’t have spare jeans, so I’ll just have to deal with these—” “I have some you can borrow,” Jamie interrupts. “Not mine, obviously, you’d be swimming in those. But I’ve got friends and exes who sometimes leave clothes here. Everything’s been cleaned, and I think you might be able to find something that’ll fit. Closet in the guest room, down the hall, first door on the right.” Ben disappears down the hall, and when I turn to speak to Jamie, he shakes his head and says, “I’ll be back. I’m going to change out of this.” He plucks at the hem of his soda-speckled sweater and heads for his bedroom, adding over his shoulder, “I’m bringing out a shirt for you, too, G. I was serious about not letting you wear that out in public.” The moment we’re alone, Travis moves to stand in front of me, nudging my legs apart so that he can pull me to the edge of the counter and loop an arm around my waist. “Tell me the truth. They’re screwing, aren’t they?” “Does Ben really strike you as the kind of guy who’d hook up with a random he doesn’t even like?” I ask. My instinct to keep Jamie’s secrets is so much greater than my instinct to tell the truth outright. Besides, I’m not lying, per se; I’m letting Travis come to his own conclusions, whether they’re right or wrong. He gives me a brief kiss on the lips, then smirks a little. “When I asked him out, do you know what his response was?” I shake my head. “He said, ‘Fuck you.’ Same thing he said the first time I told him I loved him, only then, it was followed by ‘you asshole,’ and later, ‘god, you’re such a moron.’” “He’s such a sweetheart,” I say. “Point is, I think you’re underestimating how similar insults and foreplay are to Ben,” Travis says. Down the hall, Jamie’s bedroom door clicks back open and he joins us, now wearing a pale blue Oxford that flaunts the fresh tan he picked up while back in Georgia for Christmas. The top two buttons have been left open, and he’s in the process of cuffing his sleeves to expose the lean muscle of his forearms. “See? So much better than argyle. Look at you, you GQ motherfucker,” I say. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, flinging one of my plain, black, long-sleeved shirts at me. “Change into that. Fair is fair.” Before I can move, Travis hooks his hands under the hem of my shirt and strips me of it. It’s pure reflex from that point; the second my head has been freed from the material of the shirt, I pull him in for another kiss. He’s quick to reciprocate, but another door opens down the hall, and Ben says, “If you guys are having an orgy, I’m going back in that room and hiding until you’re done.” I twist to snipe something back at him, but am instantly distracted—he’s still in the process of yanking on one of those dark gray henleys he wears all the time, but my eyes are drawn to what looks like a smear of blackness across his ribcage. I push Travis away, tug on the shirt Jamie has passed me, and jump off the counter to join Ben in the living room. “Dude, what’s that on your side?” “Nothing,” he says, worrying the hem of his shirt between his fingertips, like that will keep it in place. Not likely. I hike his shirt up and drop to my knees next to him to more fully examine the intricate, black-and-gray image of an antique typewriter that has been inked into the skin over his ribs. It’s a beautiful piece, and fantastically detailed—the keys have been perfectly lettered, and the mechanics seem to be completely accurate, but the artist has also taken the time to add in signs of age and wear. There are chinks in the edges of the typewriter itself. One of the keys is cracked down the middle. Parts of it are chipped and bent; it’s just skin and ink, but the image is full of character and history and an unbelievable artfulness. “Christ, Ben. This is gorgeous,” I say, glancing up in time to see a pleased little smile flash across his face. “When did you get it done? Where did you get it done? Did—” “Calm down, it’s just a tattoo,” he says. He steps back, but allows Travis to take his turn checking it out before pulling the shirt back down. “I got it a few weeks ago. My friend, Delilah? She’s in the Art History program at Yale, and she works at a tattoo parlor in downtown New Haven.” “Is it for the poem?” Jamie asks suddenly. I blink over my shoulder at him, but he’s not looking back. He’s down on one knee, carefully lacing up his shoes. When Ben doesn’t immediately respond, he amends, “The Bukowski poem.” Ben nods. “And the H—there’s this Hemingway quote I like. It’s for both of them.” Jamie fucking saunters over and pauses right inside the invasion-of-personal-space realm before Ben. Rather than grabbing the shirt material itself, he flattens his palm against Ben’s skin and slides his hand upward so that the hem is bunched up over his wrist. He cocks his head to the side, smiles a little, and says, “I like it.” “What?” Ben says hoarsely. “The tattoo,” Jamie says. He pulls his hand free, claps Ben on the shoulder, and heads back to the kitchen. “I like the tattoo. Now, y’all should eat something. We need to head out soon, unless we intend to be late for the concert.” “Show,” Ben corrects, trudging after him towards the food. Travis and I turn to stare at each other. After a minute, I reach over, slide my hand up the front of his shirt, and whisper, “I like it.” He crowds close to me and buries his face against my shoulder to muffle his laughter. “This is getting completely out-of-hand,” he whispers back. “Can one of them just get on their knees and get this over with? I’m starting to feel embarrassed for them.” Traffic tonight is more insane than usual, and getting a cab seems to be out of the question. Much to Jamie’s loudly verbalized displeasure, we end up taking the subway. It turns out to be probably the most entertaining experience I’ve had in weeks. It’s not like I’ve got my head completely up my ass—I know that Lakewood is a tiny, bullshit town of about eight thousand people, but neither Travis nor Ben has ever struck me as being as utterly country as they seem right now. Ben keeps getting dragged into conversations with schizophrenic homeless people and belligerent drunks because he’s too polite to ignore them like Jamie and I have been doing.

Travis isn’t talking much at all, but he’s doing a hell of a lot of staring. I can see every light we pass reflected in his wide eyes, as if he’s afraid to blink if it means he might miss anything. He has clearly forgotten that, in just a few weeks, he’ll be coming here every day for classes. Once we get off the subway and start to walk the last few blocks to the club hosting the show, I decide it’s better if I just slip an arm around his shoulders so that I can steer him down the sidewalk, because he’s operating under a very me-like inability to focus on where he’s going. He shoots me a sheepish half-smile, and I catch it with my lips. The line outside the club is long, but not unbearable. We tack ourselves onto the end of it, and after we both light cigarettes, Jamie beckons Ben closer to him with a too-casual-to-really-be-casual, “McCutcheon, come here for a minute.” Ben’s expression is wary as he steps into reach, then warier still when Jamie loops an arm around him and makes a grab for his ass. “Knew I should’ve grabbed one of those rape whistles they were handing out at student orientation a few months ago,” Ben says, but before he has time to shove his way to freedom, Jamie snatches his wallet out of his pocket and flips it open. Casting a quick glance around to make sure that no one is paying attention, he replaces Ben’s driver’s license with the fake from his pocket and slips the real one into the inner pocket of his own coat. Then, presumably just for the sake of being an asshole, he empties Ben’s wallet of the remaining student IDs, library cards, debit cards, whatever, and starts rearranging them in new slots. He slides it back into Ben’s pocket and says, “It’s a good fake, and you look less like a four-year-old than usual, with that scruff you’ve got on. But if they start quizzing you, all the information is the same as what you’ve got on your real one, so don’t panic. Your birthday’s the same, but the year is three years earlier. Got it?” Ben nods, and I expect Jamie to be pleased, but he ends up scowling. “Are you fucking shaking? For God’s sake, it’s not that big of a—” “I’m shivering, you asshole,” Ben retorts. “You know, that thing that people do when someone pours soda all over their sweatshirt so it’s unwearable, and then makes them stand on a New York City street corner in December?” Jamie heaves a sigh and flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Will you stop whining if I give you my coat?” “No, but I might asphyxiate on the overpowering smell of that cologne you wear,” Ben says. “Excellent. If you die, you won’t be cold anymore, and I won’t have to listen to you talk. Everyone’s a winner,” Jamie says brightly. Before the argument can continue any further, Travis ducks out from under my arm and pulls off one of the two hoodies he has layered in place of a jacket. He hands it to Ben, who pulls it on, tugs up the hood, and leans up to give Travis an appreciative kiss on the cheek. I frown—for the next few hours, Travis is still supposed to be mine. But he catches sight of my expression and rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t even try to give me that bullshit, after I had to watch you climb on top of James and make out with him on webcam for his girlfriend. Like that wasn’t crazy weird. And you know you’re going to make out with him at midnight, too.” “I never said I was going to do that!” I protest, but Jamie pinches my side. “Of course you are. Who the fuck else would I kiss?” he says. Travis shoots him another of those sarcastically baffled looks and says, “Wow, I don’t know. It’s a shame there’s nobody in this group who I’m about ninety percent sure you fucked in a diner parking lot while I made small-talk with your girlfriend a few weeks ago.” I cover my face with my hands to hide my grin, but can’t resist peeking through my fingers to see the reactions that statement has earned. Ben is hunched up inside his hoodie, staring up at Travis with wide, nervous eyes; he looks like a ten-year-old, waiting to be chastised. Jamie, however, stubs out the butt of his cigarette, pulls my hand away from my face to steal a drag off mine, and says, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, McCall.” “The seat was sticky, James,” Travis says flatly. “The windows were fogged up, the entire car reeked of sex, you left the lube on the floor, and I spent the entire ride home sitting in your jizz.” Jamie’s neutral expression finally cracks into a smile as he admits, “Might not have been mine.” Travis rolls his eyes and turns to Ben, delivering a hard kick to his shins. “And you. You should’ve fucking told me, dude. Now that the shit has hit the fan between you and Alex, you have to tell me about stuff like this, because I’m clearly your back-up best friend.” “I know you are. I just… fuck, Trav, it’s not something I’m proud of. I didn’t know how to tell you,” Ben mutters. “I mean, the guy’s a total douchebag, I’m not going to go around bragging about making the mistake of—” “You realize that I’m still standing right here, don’t you?” Jamie interrupts. Ben glares at him, and this obviously has the potential to turn into another argument, so I interject, “Ben, I thought I was your back-up best friend.” “You can’t be—you’ve already got your own best friend, though you’re not getting any points for taste,” Ben says. “So does Travis,” I say. “What about Corey Copicetti?” Travis shrugs. “We still talk, and we’ve hung out a couple of times this semester, but we’re not bros like we used to be.” “That’s a shame. I liked him,” Jamie says. When Travis shoots him a bemused look, he shrugs. “We smoked a bowl together behind the church right after the wedding in April, while you were off having your breakdown and nailing the midget.” “You’re unbelievable,” Travis says. “In the course of a long weekend, you showed up at my house without warning, moved into my ex’s bedroom across the hall, smoked up with my best friend, and threw a party at my house.” Jamie shrugs. “Made out with your sister, too.” Travis pales. “You did what?” “I made out with your sister,” Jamie repeats, slowly. When Travis continues to be too alarmed to reply, he adds, “Don’t worry, her boyfriend knew it was happening. He was watching from the chair next to the bed. It was strange, but kind of hot.” “T’s probably going to punch you in a minute, if you don’t shut up,” I whisper, and Jamie falls obediently silent. Ben, of course, does not. He shoots Jamie a disgusted look and says, “Your opinion on what constitutes acceptable relationship behavior is completely beyond the realm of normalcy.” Jamie cocks his head to the side. “Did you figure that out before or after you realized that the only time I’m interested in sleeping with you is when there’s a chance we’ll get caught by someone I’m dating?” I punch Jamie in the shoulder as hard as I can, because that’s bullshit. He likes risk, and he likes secrecy, and he gets incredibly turned on by the idea that he might get caught doing something wrong, but I’ve known him too long and too well to believe that that’s the only reason he wants to sleep with Ben. I know he can be an asshole at times, and I know that all of our other friends assume that he’s driven solely by a desire to put his dick in people, but I also know that Jamie doesn’t fuck people who he isn’t attracted to. I know he wouldn’t fuck someone just for the sake of almost getting caught, and he sure as hell wouldn’t do that to someone he knows I care about. But the things I know don’t do anything to change the fact that, for a split second, Ben looks like he just got punched in the face. Then something closes off in his eyes, like shutters being drawn, and he turns, takes a step forward in line, and says over his shoulder, “Where’s Rachael?” Jamie frowns at his back. “Home in Rhode Island for the holidays.” “Fantastic. Guess that means you can keep your hands off me tonight,” he says. When Jamie doesn’t respond, he glances back again. “I’m serious. You touch me, and I’ll break your fucking wrist.” “Is there a problem?” the ticket girl asks. I blink; I hadn’t realized that we’d finally made our way up to the front door. “Yes,” Ben says flatly, “I’m only capable of sleeping with men who are assholes. That’s a problem, right?” The girl throws her head back and laughs. “And what I wouldn’t give for the solution to it. Go on in, honey.” She plucks his ticket from his hand and waves him on without even bothering to ask for ID. Jamie and Travis both make it through without anything more than the presentation of tickets. I’m the only one who gets carded, which is fucking ridiculous, because I know for a fact that I look older than anyone else in our group. I sulk over it the whole time we’re dropping off our jackets at the coat check closet, but rouse myself from my pissy mood when I spot the bar. “I’m going to go grab a water. Anybody want anything?” I point to Ben, then to Travis and Jamie. “Water, two beers?” “Yeah, beer’s fine,” Travis says, side-eyeing Jamie. “Take Ben with you.” “Why?” Ben says, frowning. I roll my eyes and grab him by the belt loop. “He needs us to fuck off for a minute so he can yell at James for being a cunt to you outside. Hey, Jamie—beer?” “No,” Jamie says, attention on Travis even as he speaks to me. “I want that life-ruining, no-mixer drink you used to make at Patton.” “The last time we drank those, we let Kevin sell us on Craigslist to some Portuguese woman who wanted to give her husband ‘pretty American boys, give very good blowjobs’ for their anniversary,” I say. “I mean, sure, we’d had like, ten drinks each, but still. We woke up in a basement in Maine. We probably would’ve gotten turned into skin suits if Andrew and Colin hadn’t found us and stolen us back. So, if that’s what you’re drinking tonight, make sure the GPS tracking in your phone is turned on.” He flashes me a smile. “I’ll only have one. That won’t even get me drunk. Go.” I ruffle his hair, peck a kiss to Travis’ cheek, and drag Ben towards the bar. “You good with water, or you want something else?” “Water’s good,” he says. I wedge myself between two dumb bitches who don’t know enough to back off from the bar once they’ve gotten their drinks. It takes a minute for the bartender to come around to us. “Hey, man. Two bottles of water, bottle of Sam Adams, and a Darth Vader.” “A what?” the bartender says, squinting at me. “Darth Vader. Half ounce each of vodka, tequila, gin, rum, and triple sec, over ice, topped with a half ounce of Jager,” I say. He shrugs, passes me the three bottles I’ve asked for, and starts mixing. I nudge Ben and say, “I swear, I’d make bank as a bartender. My brain is like an encyclopedia of drink recipes.” He snorts. “Probably not the best idea, considering you’re an alcoholic.” “That’s the beauty of it—I’d get to play with booze, but I wouldn’t have to drink it. It’d be a chance to put years of hard-won knowledge to use without, you know, becoming a shit-show again.” I pause, then cast a glance over my shoulder at Jamie, who is listening intently while Travis… tears him a new one, it looks like. “He doesn’t mean it, you know. The shit he says? He still hasn’t said much to me about what he really thinks of you, but—” “I don’t know why you and Travis insist on living in some alternate universe where I need you guys to protect me from James Goldwyn, but I promise you, I can handle it,” Ben interrupts. “I’ve already been through this bullshit with his cousin, remember? I’m used to it.” “But that’s the thing—he’s not like Ethan was. Jamie’s basically got two types of hook-ups. He’s got people he nails once—literally once, one time, singular—and never speaks to again, and then he’s got people who he… fixates on, I guess.” Ben’s forehead creases. “What do you mean?” “I don’t fucking know, I guess I’m talking about dating? Look, my relationship experience is pretty much limited to David, Travis, and you. I’m more of a hook-up guy, a friends-with-benefits guy. But Jamie—he dates. And not just this thing he’s got with Rachael, either. Sometimes he’s legitimately committed to being with just one person, no screwing around on the side. But his relationships tend to be pretty short, because—” I sigh, dump some money on the bar when the bartender sets down the drink in front of me, grab one of the bottles of water, and gesture for Ben to pick up the other two bottles. “It’s hard to explain? But the thing Jamie likes more than anything else is the way it feels to do something or someone for the first time. He likes it when things are surprising, and exciting, and raw. Naturally, that first-time excitement usually goes away after he’s slept with somebody once. But sometimes, it doesn’t, and those are the people he dates. Then a few weeks go by, or a few months, if they’re lucky, and once there’s nothing left in that person that’s undiscovered, there’s no reason for him to stay. So he ends it.” “Is that why he got over that thing with Alex so quickly? Because there was nothing left to discover?” Ben asks. God, this kid is fucking stupid; I can’t believe that he’s pretty much the gold standard of intelligence in my social circle. I roll my eyes towards the club ceiling. “Alex is cool. He’s fun, and he’s my friend, but he’s about as deep as the puddle of Heineken that I’m standing in right now. I never expected Jamie’s interest in him to last as long as it did, especially after I found out that he’d found someone else who was so much shinier.” Ben blinks at me. I contemplate drowning myself in Jamie’s Darth Vader. Instead, I force myself to take a slow, calming breath. “You, Ben. I’m talking about you. I mean, the sex alone? You’re—” “Please don’t have this conversation with me in public,” Ben pleads. “—fucking insane. You and I hooked up for over a year, and you still managed to surprise me with some of the weirdass how-do-you-feel-about-the-concept-of-spanking, my-safeword-is-unicorn, here-I-think-you-should-read-this-article-about-some-bondage-thing-called-subspace-because-if-you-hurt-me-just-right-my-body-might-release-too-many-endorphins-and-make-me-zone-right-the-fuck-out shit you came up with.” “My safeword isn’t unicorn,” Ben whispers, trying to hide his face behind the water and beer he’s holding. “And everything else you’ve mentioned was told to you in confidence, why the fuck are you bringing this up in the middle of a crowded bar?” “I’m making a point,” I say. “Look, you’re appallingly creative when it comes to getting off, and on top of that, you’re smart as hell. Your interests are as geeky as they are varied, and you—Christ, dude, you’re like that poem you made me analyze for my final essay for English class. The Margaret Atwood one.” And there’s that creased forehead again. “You’re going to need to narrow it down. She kinda wrote more than one.” “The one about the orange on the table,” I say. “You’re like the part about the mountains and the dinosaurs and whatever.” “There are mountains inside your skull,” he says immediately. “Garden and chaos, ocean and hurricane; certain corners of rooms, portraits of great grandmothers, curtains of a particular shade; your deserts; your private dinosaurs; the first--” “Yes, shut up, I get it, stop quoting. But the fact that you do that, the fact that you’ve got all this fucking poetry just stashed away inside your head? That probably turns Jamie on, too. I don’t know for sure, because he won’t talk about it, but it’s pretty obvious to me that you’re still ages away from boring him, and that—it’s weird. Because I’ve seen him have one-night stands, and I’ve seen him have relationships, but this whole hatesex-interspersed-with-random-philosophy-and-literature-debates thing that you guys have got going on? I’ve never seen him have that.” Ben opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the arrival of our friends. Jamie takes his drink from me, takes a sip of it, and says, “What are you two talking about?” “Safewords,” I say blandly. “Ben’s isn’t ‘unicorn,’ for the record. What did you guys talk about?” “The fact that Travis is going to kneecap me if I don’t start being nicer to this one,” Jamie says, jerking his head towards Ben. “Apparently, I’m a bit of a prick. Who knew?” “Everyone?” Ben suggests, which earns him a glare, but no comment. Progress. The first band starts to file out onto the stage, so I grab the first hand I see—pretty sure it’s Ben’s—and drag him after me out into the crowd of people who are inching closer to the stage to watch. My enthusiasm turns out to be for absolutely nothing; the first band is so ungodly terrible that I actually start to laugh halfway through their first song. Jamie just sighs a lot, takes heavy draws from his drink, and checks out the people around us more than anything. After two songs of torture, Travis slips an arm around my waist and pulls me close enough to say into my ear, “Seriously? When you and Ben go to your totally rad shows, this is the kind of shit you’ve been listening to?” “Unsigned bands are kind of fifty-fifty,” I admit. “Half of ‘em suck, like this, and the other half are actually good. Just wait it out. I promise at least two of the other bands we hear tonight will be cool.” The second band sucks just as much as the first, and now, Travis isn’t the only one getting restless. Most of the people in the crowd are making more trips to the bar than I think they usually would, and a few douches in the back are heckling the people on stage. But then the third band comes out, and they start rocking. The guitarist seems like a dick who’s overly impressed with himself—something Ben mutters is true of all guitarists, when I tell him this—but the singer’s got an awesome voice, and their drummer is this red-haired chick who is absolutely wailing on her kit. Their five-song set is just enough to get everyone pumped up for the fourth band, who’s supposed to bring us through the midnight countdown. Jamie slings an arm around my shoulders. “Thirty seconds. You want me to go find a stranger to seduce so you can suck face with your stepbrother?” “Nope,” Travis answers for me. “You can have him. I know you two will both bitch about it if anyone tries to get in between you. Besides, I’ve got Ben.” “Lucky me,” Ben deadpans. Travis frowns at him. “You were a lot nicer back when we were dating.” Ben raises an eyebrow in a silent response that is clearly intended to mean, no, I wasn’t. “Okay, you were still mean, but you at least liked making out with me.” “Says who?” “Ten seconds,” I say, but it’s unnecessary—the show host is already holding up a huge, ancient clock and bouncing around as the lead singer of the fourth band counts out the final seconds of the year. Countdowns are almost always anti-climactic for me. Every year, I expect to feel different, or nostalgic about the year that has just ended, or excited for the future, but then it’s midnight, and I feel the same as I did a minute earlier. So, I go for my default distraction—I catch Jamie by the front of his Oxford and start kissing him when the singer calls out the five-second warning. Next to me, Travis is laughing, but the sound of it gets drowned out in cheers when we hit midnight. Even once the majority of the noise has faded into the usual chatter, I can’t hear him—probably because he has traded in laughing for making out with Ben. I extract myself from Jamie’s grip and watch them for a moment before my curiosity at finally seeing them kiss each other is completely outweighed by my desire to get my former not-boyfriend the hell off my current not-boyfriend. “Hey. McCutcheon. Tongue in your own mouth,” I say. They break apart, both rolling their eyes, and Ben pushes Travis towards me. “He’s all yours. Enjoy the taste of my saliva in his mouth, you sick fuck.” Mostly for show, I pull Travis into a quick kiss before turning him around so that we’re both facing the stage as the fourth band starts to get into their set. He leans back against my chest, letting me support a bit of his weight. The brim of his ball cap is digging into my shoulder, and I have to abandon the last quarter of my water bottle so that I can settle my hands over his hips, but it’s worth it to have the chance to keep him close while the music plays on.Shortly after the fourth band finishes their setlist, a dude standing next to me fumbles his nearly-full bottle of beer, and I instinctively toss out a hand to catch it. I manage to get it before it hits the ground—he accepts it and nods his thanks to me—but I end up with a decent splash of beer across my hand. The scent of booze has already seeped into my clothes pretty thoroughly, but I’d rather not have it soaked into my skin, too. I nudge Travis with my elbow and say, “I’m gonna go wash my hands, I’ll be back before the last band comes on.”

“Bathroom’s through there,” he says, pointing to the back corner of the venue. I nod, kiss him on the cheek, and head for the door he has indicated. The men’s room is empty, except for the handicapped stall, which is closed tight and has two pairs of feet visible beneath the door. I contemplate making a lewd comment, but then I hear low voices, and I realize it’s not a hookup. It’s a drug deal. I turn to the sink and wrench the faucet on, but my hands are shaking under the stream of water. All I can think about is the last time I was in this scenario—that night in September, I had knocked on the stall door, I’d bought my way in, I’d relapsed. But I’m not low like I was then. I can stand being around people who are drinking and using and dealing, and it doesn’t mean I have to do it, too. I’m fine, or at least, I can tell myself I am. This isn’t a problem, and I’ll be out of here in less than a minute. It’s not a big deal. Just some strangers making a buy in a bathroom stall. But then the stall door bangs open, and two dudes come out, and one of them isn’t a stranger at all. The one who is—the buyer, I’d guess—doesn’t even spare me a glance as he scurries back out into the club, but the non-stranger catches sight of me and freezes. Don’t say anything. Don’t recognize me. Don’t remember what happened the last time you saw me. But of course, he lets out an awkward laugh, steps closer, and says, “Anderson, man. It’s been a while.” “Hey, Seth. Yeah. A couple months,” I say. For a guy who fucked me in the ass, Seth Hayden is surprisingly heterosexual, so the once-over he gives me is completely non-sexual. “You look different from the last time we hung out. That’s, uh… a good thing, yeah? You seemed pretty fucked up back then.” I nod and drop my eyes to my hands, scrubbing a little harder. “I was. Checked into rehab two days after you last saw me. I’m almost four months clean.” He shoots me a slightly lopsided grin. “That was more than four months ago, though, wasn’t it?” I can’t help but return the smile as I admit, “Dude, you try staying sober when you’re a fucking super-senior in a public school.” “That what you’re doing now?” “Hell no. Finally back at Patton, starting next week.” He nods. “Makes sense for you to finish there. Senior year was pretty weird without you there. You know, you and—” he makes a face, “—Goldwyn. He ever tell you that they tried to give him another roommate after you left? But he like, went crazy. Barely spoke to the guy, unless it was to bitch him out for leaving a sock on the floor or not letting him alphabetize the guy’s schoolbooks or whatever. Fucking scared the dude out of the school. Happened three times before they were finally like, fuck it, you can have a single. None of us could figure out how the hell you managed to put up with three years of his weirdness.” It’s hard to pull off a normal shrug with my hackles raised. “The stories are bullshit, Jamie’s fine to live with.” But hey, I never tried to stop Jamie from alphabetizing my shit when he wanted to, so what do I know? “He’s here tonight, you know. We came together.” Seth makes another face. “No shit? I didn’t know he was still in New York. Figured he would’ve gone back to Alabama.” “He’s from Georgia. And no, he lives in Manhattan. Goes to school up here,” I say. “Good for him,” Seth says, blatantly not meaning it. I make the mistake of believing that this is the part of the conversation where I can escape without any damage being done. But then he puts his hands in his pockets, and it’s a completely innocent gesture, apart from how I know—as sure as I know my own name—that he’s holding at least half a gram of coke in those pockets. All at once, this bathroom seems too small. I fumble to turn off the faucet and dry my hands against my jeans, but when I glance back at Seth’s face, he’s watching me too carefully. “You know, I’ve got this uncle who ended up in rehab,” he says conversationally. “He and his wife split up, and he started drinking a lot more to deal with it. Then from there, he started shooting heroin, and it… obviously, it didn’t go well. Things got pretty bad, but he was able to sober up, sort all his shit out.” “Oh,” is all I say, even though what I want to say is, you’ve got an uncle who’s a junkie and you’re still a drug dealer? He shrugs. “Yeah. The thing is, though, once the divorce got finalized and he moved on, started seeing someone new, he was still okay. He can even drink now, without getting trashed or having DUIs or needing more all the time. He’s a—you know, a social drinker. Ever think maybe you’re like that?” My stomach turns over. “What?” “G, when you were crashing with Goldwyn for those few months last spring, you were totally fucked up, and it had nothing to do with drugs. You weren’t even using then, but you were screwed up over your dad kicking you out, and your stepmom being a fuckin’ cunt, and your breakup with that guy you were dating.” “Travis,” I say quietly. “His name is Travis.” “He still treating you like shit?” Seth asks. I think of Travis asking me to move in with him, and taking me on that movie date, and packing up everything he owns to come to New York with me, and smiling against my lips minutes after midnight. I shake my head. “What about your dad? Things good with him? And your stepmom isn’t a bitch anymore?” I think of their divorce, and that Disney-esque moment in the living room, of Dad telling me how proud he is of me, my own mom buying me soft sweaters and awesome t-shirts. “Things with my parents are good. My mom and I are fine, my dad and I are fine, and my stepmom’s still a cunt, but they’re getting a divorce. I haven’t seen her in ages.” Seth shrugs. “Seems to me like your life is a lot better now than it was a few months ago. Maybe that’s why you’re not freaking out. Maybe the drugs were never really the problem.” He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong, but it’s like his words are taking that one last spark of hope I’d had that maybe I could party like a normal person again someday, and they’re kindling it into this huge fucking fire that’s burning me from the inside out. And I can see it—this alternate reality, where I can have a beer with my friends on nights like this, where I can do a bump at a crazy party, where I can get wasted on Darth Vaders with Jamie and laugh about it the next day. Where I can be me, like I was before. “Maybe,” I say. He smiles, tugs his hand out of his pocket and extends it for a shake. “Well, I should get back out to my friends. Last thing I need is for Goldwyn to come looking for you and fuckin’ shoot me again.” We both laugh, even though it’s not really amusing. I fit my hand into his, and he gives it a firm shake. “See you around, man.” I don’t feel the crinkle of plastic against my fingers until he’s pulling his hand away, and at that point, it’s too late to refuse. I stare him dead in the eyes, my hand still hovering between us, curled into a loose fist. It’s not like I have to look down to know what I’m holding—I’ve held enough bags of coke in my life to know what they feel like. I swallow and force out, “Seth—” “Consider it my apology,” he says quietly, “for how things went down between us back in June. I was a dick to you, bro. I knew you needed a favor, and I should’ve just given it to you when you asked. This is my way of showing you that I’m sorry.” If he wants to apologize, he should probably apologize for selling me the shit coke that pissed off Dave enough to beat me that first time. Or he should apologize for letting me buy from him when it was obvious I was losing my mind last year. He should apologize for getting me to whore myself out for a gram. He should not be apologizing for the fact that he didn’t give me more drugs. But the look on his face is so calm, way calmer than I feel. Slowly, I lower my hand, clenching my fingers tighter around the bag. “Thanks.” “No problem,” he says, grinning. He claps me on the shoulder and walks out. My palm is slick with sweat, and the bag is sticking to it. If I had even an ounce of sense at all, I’d flush it. But I don’t. I can’t. I can’t flush it, I can’t leave it here, I can’t go back out to my friends and pretend I’m not holding. I shove my fists deep into my pockets and shoulder open the men’s room door, making a bee-line for the nearest exterior door. I slip through it and find myself in an empty alley. The door swings shut behind me, cutting off the music from the club. And then it’s just me, and the alley, and the silence, and the snow, and the coke. Carefully, I extract the bag from my pocket and lean back against the side of the building, blinking down at the drugs in my hand. This isn’t fucking fair. I haven’t been craving anything; it’s been weeks since I felt shitty enough to want to disappear back down the hole I’ve been crawling out of for months. It’s not like I came to New York with the intention of scoring, but… I don’t know how to have drugs and not use them. If this coke isn’t going up my nose, I’ve got no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do with it. I’ve been standing there for barely a minute before the door next to me bangs open, unleashing a burst of the music that's being played over the sound system between bands.

Ben stumbles out into the alley, tripping over his own feet as Jamie walks him backward until the pair of them crash into the brick wall opposite the door. They’re a mess of limbs, and at first, I can’t figure out whether they’re fighting or fucking around. After a few seconds, though, Jamie’s knees hit the pavement, and he pins Ben’s shoulders to the wall with one hand pressed to his collarbone, draws the hem of his shirt up with the other. He brushes a few frantic, open-mouthed kisses to Ben’s chest and stomach—one over the typewriter tattoo—and then the kisses start to have more teeth than lip, and I realize that he’s doing his best to scatter hickeys all over Ben’s pale torso. He mutters something that I can’t really hear, but that sounds like it might be, “You look so good when I get you all marked up like this.”

“Thought you only liked to fuck around with me when you thought you might get caught by someone you were dating,” Ben says, arching up into the bites. “Thought you said your girlfriend was out of state—” “Thought you were going to break my wrist if I touched you?” Jamie retorts. “Pretty sure you shot that plan to hell when you started groping me during the second band’s set,” Ben says, and Jamie laughs against the sharpness of his hipbone. “I had to do something to entertain myself. They were terrible.” I watch the dampness from the pavement seep into the knees of Jamie’s jeans. He’s never been a big fan of sucking cock—not like I am, anyway. He usually does it just for the sake of fairness and reciprocation, and he never lets anyone come in his mouth, not even me. Says he hates the taste. Can’t deep-throat, has no interest in ever developing the ability to. It’s been years since I’ve seen him really eager to suck anybody off, but I guess he’s forgetting all of that now, because his long fingers twitch towards the four-button fly of Ben’s jeans, and he says, “You’ve changed your mind, right? I don’t have to fear for my delicate bones anymore? Because I’d very much like to blow you right now, and—” “Then shut the fuck up and do it,” Ben orders, yanking open the last button. I clear my throat and admit softly, “I’m not sure of a non-awkward way to announce my presence.” They both freeze. I scuff the toe of my boot against the pavement. “Yeah. Kinda been standing here the whole time. You guys aren’t too observant.” “You could’ve said something,” Jamie says, turning to glare at me, but the moment he actually gets a look at my face, he realizes that something is wrong, and his entire posture changes. Kind of ironic—I came out here to avoid giving him the chance to see me before I’d gotten the chance to get my game face back on. He gets back onto his feet and takes a step towards me. “You alright, G?” I sneak a peek at his eyes; he looks nervous, but not as nervous as I feel when I hold my fist out towards him. He frowns, but extends his own hand, palm up, underneath mine, ready to take whatever I’ve got. I force my fingers to unclench. The bag lands in the center of his palm, and we both stare at it. Having secured the last button on his jeans, Ben takes a step closer, only to freeze again when he realizes what I’ve just passed over. Finally, Jamie says, “Who the fuck did you buy this from?” “Nobody,” I say simply. “I, um… there’s someone here. And we got to talking while I was in the bathroom, washing that beer off my hands? He gave it to me. Said it was a present.” “Who gives somebody drugs as a present?” Ben asks, but right over the end of his sentence, Jamie is snapping, “Seth? Is Seth fucking Hayden at this show?” “I didn’t know he would be here. I didn’t even know he was still living in New York,” I say, voice pathetically small even to my own ears. “We were just talking, and then—he passed it to me in a handshake. I didn’t even realize what he was doing until I was already holding it. Don’t be mad at me.” Jamie’s face softens, and he flings the bag off his hand and onto the ground before stepping close to me and gripping my shoulders. “I’m not mad at you, darlin’,” he says. I can tell he’s purposely thickening his accent, because he knows how much it soothes me when he speaks to me in a low, soft drawl. But right now, I don’t feel like I deserve to be soothed. He continues, “I know you didn’t expect him to be here—this whole night was my idea, anyway. Don’t you dare think I’m mad at you, not even for a second. I’m mad at him, which is why Ben’s going to stay here with you while I go inside and find Seth. Then, I’m gonna drag him out here, and you’re gonna watch me murder him with my bare hands. Does that sound like fun, sweetheart? You wanna watch me kill Seth for you?” I choke on a laugh, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “You think I’m joking, but I’m serious as all get out. You’ve got no idea what it’s taking for me to stay standing here with you, instead of hunting him down like a dog.” “Don’t,” I sigh. “I don’t want you to do anything, alright? I just… I couldn’t just toss it, and I sure as hell couldn’t hold onto it, and I didn’t know what to do.” Ben takes another step forward and catches my hand with his own. “I’m going to get Travis and bring him out here, okay?” “Don’t,” I repeat, though the word is hard to get out around the panic that’s squeezing my throat shut. Ben’s eyebrows flick upward. I lick my lips and say quietly, “He doesn’t think I can do this. I know he doesn’t. And I don’t want him to know how right he is—how close I came to fucking up. I can’t let him know—” “He doesn’t feel that way, Garen. None of us do. I’m going to get him,” Ben interrupts, and before I can stop him, he slips back into the building. I sneak a glance at Jamie, who is still watching me with dark, unblinking eyes. I swallow. “S-So, you and Ben—” “Don’t even think about changing the subject,” Jamie warns, and I shut my mouth so quickly that my teeth click together. Silence stretches between us for one, two, three minutes, and then the side door bursts open again, and Ben steps out, followed immediately by Travis. “Hi,” I say. “Sorry, it’s—they’re making a big deal out of nothing. Everything’s fine. You don’t—” My words stutter into silence when Travis nudges Jamie out of the way and threads both of his hands into my hair, using his grip to tilt my head down so that our foreheads touch. “It’s okay. Just tell me what happened.” I close my eyes. “My dealer’s here. Ex-dealer, I guess? The last time I saw him, I was pretty much selling him my ass for drugs, so I was hoping he’d just ignore me when he saw me, but he—we talked. And it was normal, casual, like we were still bros. H-He said he could, you know, he said he was holding, if I wanted anything. I told him I’m clean now, and he said—he’s got some uncle or cousin or brother or whatever, somebody in his family—and he said I could maybe be a casual user someday, once I was happier or more stable. I know he’s wrong, okay? I know he’s a dealer, so obviously it’s in his best interest to make sure one of the people who used to buy from him is still using, but fucking hell, I wanted to believe him so badly. I wanted to believe it would be okay for me to get just a little bit high, and then he gave me—he had a bag, he gave it to me, said it was an apology for how shit went down last summer. But I didn’t use it. I swear, I didn’t—” “I know you didn’t,” Travis assures me. “You don’t need to defend yourself, I already know. Okay?” “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper. “We haven’t even moved into the new place. We’re not even really living in New York yet, and I’m already fucking it up. I don’t—” “You haven’t fucked up anything. Somebody literally put drugs in your hand, and you didn’t use them. You didn’t hide them for later. You didn’t lie about it. You gave them to James, and you told us what happened, and I am so fucking proud of you for that,” he says. His hands slip from my hair so that he can wind his arms around my shoulders, drawing me in so that his lips are next to my ear. “You did exactly what you should have done. Jesus, Garen, give yourself some credit. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were brave.” He’s only saying this because he doesn’t know what happened inside my head when Seth pressed that bag into my hand. None of them know, not even Jamie, who’s done coke with me plenty of times before. They don’t understand how hard it was to stop myself from cutting a line right there on the edge of the sink in the restroom; they don’t feel the same itch I’ve got to go pick up the bag that’s still sitting on the ground. To rid myself of that temptation and silence the buzzing in my head, I stretch out and press the toe of my boot to the bag, grinding down and dragging my foot back. The plastic splits open, scattering the powder all over the damp pavement. It kind of feels like I’m being split open, too, but I can’t admit that to them. “Do you want to go back to my place?” Jamie asks. “We can leave now, if you’d like. I’ll just need a quick minute to find Seth, break a couple of his bones, maybe see if I can find somebody with a gun around here so I can shoot him again.” I huff out a laugh. “No. There’s only one more band—I want to hear them play before we go.” “You sure?” Ben asks. I nod, but don’t speak. This isn’t the first time I’ve freaked out like this and forced them into taking care of me, even now that I’m sober. I made Ben put up with so much bullshit before I could sleep with him, just because I couldn’t get over what happened with Dave. They all had to hover around me and make sure I was okay after I had that accidental sip of booze on Halloween. Travis had to deal with my silent treatment and near-relapse after Joss told me I was responsible for her abortion. It’s not fair. They never asked to be my caretakers, but every time something goes even remotely wrong, I force them into the role. The least I can do is make sure they get to enjoy the rest of this night. That plan falls apart completely once we get back inside the club, and Jamie goes completely still at the edge of the room, his eyes fixed at a point halfway across the venue. “That’s him, isn’t it? Heading for the door?” “No, it’s not,” I say, even though it really is. “It’s fine, Jamie, let’s just go listen to the last band.” But he shoves away from me and grabs Ben by the collar of his shirt. “Will you go grab the coats from the coat check?” The second Ben nods, Jamie lets go of him and strides towards the bar, snatching something off one of the high tables as he passes it. He leans across the bar, empty beer bottle in his hand, and murmurs something to the bartender. The bartender shoots him a quizzical glance, but shrugs and accepts the bottle. I watch as he fills it nearly to the top with water from the beverage gun, then passes it back to Jamie. “No. Jamie, don’t,” I say, but Jamie takes the bottle back and heads for the same door that we’ve just watched Seth leave through. I bolt after him, doing my best to weave through the crowd, but by the time I get outside, Jamie’s already in the smoking area. He curls his left hand around the neck of the bottle, forming a lip level with the opening, then brings his right palm down flat against it. It’s a cool little trick he learned at Patton, and it works perfectly—the small amount of air in the bottle is forced downward, and the bottom of the bottle is blown clean off, a neat circle of glass that hits the pavement a second later. If the sound of breaking glass and spilling water wasn’t enough to attract Seth’s attention, the way Jamie pins him to the side of the building and holds the broken bottle to his face sure as hell is. “If you ever come near Garen again, I will shove this into your eye socket,” Jamie growls, barely loudly enough for me to hear him even though I’m only a few feet away. “I shot you once, and no matter what the disciplinary committee ruled, we both know I hit exactly the mark I intended to. What makes you think I wouldn’t stab you, too?” Seth cringes away from the bottle. “Fucking Christ, Goldwyn, get off me! Garen, can’t you get him to—” “Don’t you dare say his name like that, like you’re friends. You’re not his friend, Seth, you were his dealer. Past tense. He’s clean now, and if I ever hear about you trying to give him coke again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?” “Fine! Jesus Christ, just get away from me!” “James, knock it the fuck off,” I snap, grabbing for the bottle. It’s not like I’m the pinnacle of grace, so I of course manage to cut my hand open, but I also manage to wrestle the glass away from him and crush it beneath the sole of my boot. “I’m not gonna stand here and watch you get your ass arrested for coming after somebody with a broken bottle.” Though, we’re standing outside a shady dive in Brooklyn—aren’t broken-bottle-fights par for the course around here? I try again, “He used to sell to me because I used to want to buy. You can’t put the blame on him when I’m the one who fucked up.” “You weren’t trying to buy tonight—” “And I didn’t get high tonight, did I?” I say. “So we’re ending this right now. Seth’s going to walk away, and we’re going to do the same, and he and I won’t ever speak again, yeah?” Jamie doesn’t seem like he plans to agree with my terms, so I fling an arm around his neck and drag him backward. Travis moves around to place himself as a barrier between us and Seth, just in case Jamie tries to get back over to fight him, and says, “Guess we’re heading out now after all. Wanna get a cab instead of taking the train?” “Yeah. My treat,” I say. “Ben, we’re—” I stumble to a halt, blinking, because Ben isn’t standing next to me, like I expect him to be. He’s standing in front of Seth, who eyes him warily and says, “Do I know you?” “Nope,” Ben says, and he punches Seth in the mouth. Shit, shit, I don’t have enough arms to keep all my idiot friends at bay. Luckily, Travis hasn’t yet gone over to the punching-solves-all-the-problems side, so he’s able to grab Ben by the back of his hoodie and haul him backward. “Alright, awesome, you’re going to get arrested for assault. Come on, we’re getting the fuck out of here.” “God fucking damn it, Anderson!” Seth is yelling after us as Travis and I drag Ben and Jamie away down the sidewalk. His voice sounds thick and wet, like he’s got a mouthful of blood. “Keep your bitch on a leash!” I shove Jamie around the corner before he can yell anything back. The moment he has calmed down enough to be released, I give both him and Ben a hard smack around the back of the head. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?” “I’m sorry, did you expect me to shake his hand and wish him well?” Jamie demands. “And you!” I practically howl, turning to face Ben, who is frowning and shaking out his knuckles. “You’re supposed to be the adult here!” He turns his frown on me. “Since when?” “Since always. In case you haven’t noticed, none of the rest of us are qualified for that position. You’re supposed to be the one who we can all count on to not lose his shit and punch a drug dealer in the face—” “I know,” Ben interrupts, and yes, there’s that pitiful, guilty expression I’ve been looking for. Finally, we’re making progress. “I just—seeing him tonight made it easy to remember what you looked like when you got off that bus in Cleveland in June, right after you’d made your last deal with him, and I just got so pissed off. I’m sor—” “Don’t you even think about apologizing,” Jamie warns him. “If anybody in the world deserves a punch in the face, it’s Seth Hayden. You were—what you did just now, that was so fucking good. Don’t apologize for it.” Ben ducks his head, but he doesn’t try to apologize again. I give up on trying to be the authority figure of the group and join Travis in his attempts to find a cab. The streets are still crowded with traffic, packed cars and cabs and buses full of people starting to make their way home from the midnight festivities. It takes fifteen minutes of walking and waving before we’re able to find a free cab, and even then, I hesitate. “You know, I was really hoping for one of those vans,” I admit. “I mean, the four of us would make the best Cash Cab team ever, right? Travis knows all the boring, science-y stuff, Ben’s got half the library memorized, Jamie’s full of useless historical facts—” “And you’d just be along for the ride?” Ben asks. “Uh, have you met me? Music and pop culture, dude. We’d have this in the bag.” “No, we wouldn’t, because Cash Cab isn’t even on the air anymore,” Travis says, taking the seat up next to the driver. “Besides, it’s not really random. They have a screening process to pick the contestants.” Jamie climbs into the backseat, and Ben goes after him, slouching down in his seat and propping his knees up against the divider between himself and the driver. The top of his head barely comes level with Jamie’s shoulder. I reluctantly wedge myself in with them, even though a small part of me still thinks I could probably find the Cash Cab if I tried really, really hard. I yank the door shut, the driver pulls away from the curb, and the radio is turned down for about three seconds so that Jamie can give his address, then cranked back up.

We make it less than half a block before I glance over and realize that one of his hands is resting oh-so-casually on Ben’s leg. Ben is staring at it in some strange combination of annoyance and arousal, which seems like it’s standard operating procedure for them, so I don’t say anything. Neither of them moves for three more blocks. Then the driver takes a left turn a bit too sharply, and Jamie’s hand slips further up, curving more securely over Ben’s thigh and absently beginning to trace the inseam of his jeans with the tips of his fingers. Ben’s breathing hitches just enough to be audible.

I roll my eyes and dig my phone out of my pocket so that I can text Travis, pretty sure there’s about to be a handjob back here. trade places w/ me @ next stop light? I can’t hear the chime of his phone when he receives the message, but if I hunch down a little to peer at the side mirror of the cab, I can see the glow of his phone illuminating his smile. Not a chance, he texts back. Why the hell do you think I offered to sit up front? He glances over his shoulder at me, and laughs when I give him the finger. I’ll be shocked if this cab ride takes any less than an hour in this traffic, so I steal Jamie’s iPhone from the pocket of the coat I’ve somehow been relegated to carrying, and busy myself with playing Temple Run for a while. It’s another twenty-five minutes before I’m bored and curious enough to sneak a glance over at my friends, but they’re not even doing anything. Sort of. The hard line of Ben’s dick is clearly outlined in his skin-tight jeans, and Jamie’s hand is… over it? Near it? His hand is definitely dick-adjacent, but he’s not jerking him, or even rubbing him through the denim. He’s still just carefully tracing delicate, teasing designs against the fabric with his fingertips. Fingertip, rather—just the middle one. It’s barely a touch at all, but Ben’s arms are crossed over his chest, and the hand that’s tucked against the arm closer to me is trembling. I take a peek at their faces. Ben’s eyes are closed, the muscles around his jaw clenched tight, like he’s gritting his teeth. Jamie’s expression is utterly blank, though his head is turned in this direction, and he’s not even trying to disguise the fact that he’s carefully observing Ben’s reactions. When he realizes that I’m watching him, his eyes flicker to meet mine, and a slow, sly smile creeps across his face. Usually, I’d return with a grin of my own, but my amusement with his antics is typically reserved for strangers. The idea of him tormenting one of my other best friends with half-touches isn’t nearly as hilarious to me. Maybe that’s why I whisper over Ben’s head, “For fuck’s sake, bro, just do it already.” “What are you talking about?” Jamie asks. I think he’s aiming for innocent confusion, but his words come out more like a warning. “Just jerk the guy off already,” I say, making sure to keep my voice low enough so the cabbie can’t hear. “For the past half hour, you’ve been torturing him like this. It’s the world’s most literal interpretation of the word ‘cocktease.’ The dude’s so hard he looks like he’s about to pass out—” “Fuck off,” Ben tries to say, but it mostly comes out as a breath, which doesn’t do anything to disprove my point. “I don’t understand the point of dragging this out any longer,” I say. “I like build-up and foreplay as much as the next guy, but this is just ridiculous. You’ve made your point, Jamie. You turned him on, congratulations. Now do something about it.” Jamie narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t tell me how to play with my toys, Anderson. In case you’re unaware of this, the midget’s not the one complaining about this. He likes it. You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve slept with him as many times as you have, and you’ve never noticed how much he loves a good tease. Now shut the fuck up, and let me play.” “If you’re not going to take care of him, I am,” I warn. The words are out before I can really consider what I’m saying, and okay, threatening to jerk Ben off in the back of a cab while Travis is just chilling in the front seat? Probably not my best idea. But it’s so worth it for the way Jamie’s upper lip curls back in something that’s nearly a snarl. “I fucking dare you.” Alright, wow, has he not met me? Pausing only to flash him my brightest smile, I reach over, yank open each of the four buttons at the fly of Ben’s borrowed jeans, and slip my hand under the waistband of his boxers, curling my fingers around his dick and starting to stroke him as much as the constricting denim will allow. He arches into my hand and exhales like his breath has been kicked out of him. Barely sparing a glance towards the front of the cab to make sure that neither Travis nor the driver are watching, I nudge Ben’s head to the side so that I can fit my mouth over one of the marks Jamie must have bitten into his skin when they were up against the wall in the alley. He forces out, “H-holy fuck.” “I swear, if you make him come, I’m going to beat the hell out of you,” Jamie hisses at me. “I have plans, and you’re ruining them—” “I’m just helping out my friend!” I whisper. “I mean, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen somebody get blue balls while they were actually getting touched.” And then Jamie’s hand is in Ben’s jeans, too, curling around him so that our fingers are tangled together, stroking him off while we’re practically holding fucking hands. It’s an incredibly tight fit, but he manages to steady out the clumsy stutters in my rhythm that come from the use of my non-dominant hand. “Oh my god, oh my god, what is wrong with you two?” Ben breathes out. His head is thrown back against the seat, his eyes are still closed, and if the cabbie happens to glance in the mirror, there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to mistake that expression for anything but what it is. “I thought the phone calls were bad enough, I thought that having you two carry on a conversation while one of you was actually in me would be the height of your codependency, but you are holding hands around my dick. I don’t even understand what’s happening right now.” “Look at me,” Jamie says quietly, then repeats it with more ice in his tone when Ben’s initial reaction is to shake his head, eyes still shut. It’s that coldness that finally gets Ben to swallow and turns his eyes towards Jamie. “You have three options here, McCutcheon. Option number one: you say stop, and G and I both fuck off for the rest of the night, and you won’t have to do anything at all.” “Option number one fucking sucks,” Ben says, voice cracking, and I laugh. “Option number two,” Jamie continues, “is that you can let Garen keep jerking you off. You can come all over a pair of my ex-girlfriend’s jeans, in the backseat of a taxi cab. I’m sure he’ll make it good for you, but that’ll be all you get tonight, and you’ll have to make it quick, because we’re about five blocks away from my building right now.” I don’t say anything, because I’m still jerking him off right now, but I’m not sure I really want to be. Travis must be aware of what we’re doing by now—he’s probably either glanced back or caught a snippet of conversation, or he just knows us all too well—and he hasn’t said anything, so I figure I’m not in trouble. But this… this is my last night with him. It’s the last chance I get to be with him until at least September, maybe ever. I don’t really want to have some other guy’s cum on my hands for any portion of this night, even if I really do think that this whole cab ride has been crazy unfair to Ben. Finally, Jamie says, “Option number three: you can be patient for me, and once we get back to my apartment, I can make it very worth your while, like I’d been planning to, before the goddamn Handjob Police over here decided to get involved.” He doesn’t look away from Ben’s eyes long enough to glare at me, but his tone makes it very clear he wants to. Instead, he twists our still-moving hands in a way that makes Ben’s head tip back, but catches him by the jaw so that their gazes are still locked. “Call me old-fashioned,” he murmurs, “but I think patience is an admirable quality in a man, and I believe in rewarding good behavior.” It’s a good thing Jamie’s still guiding the Creepy Threesome Handjob, because I’ve lost interest in this whole endeavor and am now texting Travis again. I can tell when I’ve been beaten, and Jamie’s just given a hell of a pitch. If Ben’s masochism has finally gone from I like having my hair pulled to I like getting blue-balled by my own sex partners, far be it from me to interfere any further with their weird little games. our friends are creepy and awful, I type. I watch the glow illuminate Travis’ barely stifled smirk, then glance down after a moment to see that he has responded, Yeah, either NYC cab drivers are immune to weirdness, or our driver is deaf, because I definitely heard all of that, and he hasn’t blinked even once. Next to me, Ben takes a long, shaky breath before reaching down to tug both the hands out of his jeans. He carefully does up the buttons on his fly, slouches even lower in his seat, and rests his hands against his knees. Jamie mutters something that’s either good choice or good boy, I can’t really be sure. Either way, I make a show of throwing my hands up in surrender, because seriously. When given the choice between getting a handjob and not getting a handjob, what kind of idiot chooses the latter? We pull up to the curb in front of Jamie’s building, and I hand over the fare, tipping generously in case the driver heard any of what was going on in the backseat. The elevator ride up to Jamie’s apartment is mostly quiet, but the moment we’re inside, I say, “So, is this the part where we all pretend we don’t know exactly who’s going to end up in bed with whom?” “Well, apparently it’s the part where you’re delusional enough to think that fucking around a couple times means that James and I are willing to share a bed, which we are most emphatically not,” Ben says, shrugging out of Travis’ hoodie and draping it over the back of one of the dining chairs. Travis frowns and says to him, “If you two aren’t okay with sharing a room, you and I can—” “You’re an idiot, and I’m not trying to cockblock anybody. You and Garen take the guest room, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Ben interrupts. “Besides, I don’t want to share a bed with you, either. You kick like a donkey on PCP.” “He’s fine, you just have to kind of… you know, octopus him into place,” I say. When my words are met with blank expressions, I shift to balance on one foot so that I can wrap both arms and one of my legs around Travis. “See? Octopus. Once he can’t move, he’s fine.” “Ben’s like, a hundred and fifteen pounds. I really don’t think he’s capable of holding me down,” Travis says. Jamie disappears down the hall for a moment before returning with two folded blankets and a pillow. He drops them on the couch, turns right back around, and heads for his room again, tossing off nothing more than, “Sleep well, y’all.” I blink. “That’s it?” “That’s it,” he confirms. I look around at Travis, who shrugs and heads for the guest room, and then at Ben, who is wordlessly retreating to the bathroom to change into the sweatpants he intends to sleep in. I bolt after Jamie, chasing him into his bedroom. “What the fuck, man? You’re still not going to get Ben off? He chose option number three! He chose—” “And it seems as if I chose a fucking idiot for my best friend,” Jamie says. He shoves me up against his closet door, pinning me in place with his hips and—okay, wow, his huge erection. As if I could have possibly missed this, he shakes me by my shoulders and says hoarsely, “I’m hard as a fucking rock, Garen. I’m so turned on, I can barely speak. Playing these games, making him wait, dragging it all out? It’s fun, for both of us. I don’t have the faintest idea what in the hell I’m doing, but I know that I like it, and I know he does, too. You’re right; he chose option three. He chose to be patient. So I’m going to make him wait for a little bit. You’re going to go to the guest room, and in a while, I’m going to go back out to the living room, and we’re both going to have hours of unbelievable, raunchy, screaming sex. Have I made myself clear?” “Crystal,” I sigh. “I mean, you and Ben have fucked twice, and Travis and Ben have fucked twice, and your cousin and Ben fucked twice, and Ben and I have fucked somewhere in the realm of fifty times, but hey, if you think you know what gets him off better than I do, far be it from me to interfere.” Jamie rolls his eyes, but accepts my goodnight kiss and lets me steal a pair of his Patton Military Academy Lacrosse Team sweatpants to sleep in. By the time I enter the guest room, Travis has already taken off his jeans and hat, and is lying on the bed in just his t-shirt and boxers. He watches me remove my shirt, boots, and jeans, then pull on the sweatpants. He pulls me onto the bed, dragging a hand through my hair to break up the hairspray holding my spikes in place. “I’ve just been warned that Jamie intends to have, and I quote, ‘raunchy, screaming sex’ on the other side of that wall,” I point to the wall separating us from the living room. “So, be prepared for that.” Travis smiles and brushes a kiss over my jaw. “Wanna see if we can drown them out?” It’s kind of the perfect response. That shouldn’t surprise me—he’s kind of the perfect guy. And I want so much to say yes, to get my hands on him, to take advantage of these last nine or so hours before we’re over. I’m an idiot if I turn him down tonight. But it’s easier, better, more right to just tuck myself against his side and center my palm on his chest, tangle our legs together and let him wrap an arm around my shoulders, bury my face against his neck and breathe. “No,” I say. “This is good.” “Okay,” he says softly, raking his fingers through my hair over and over. “Goodnight, G.” I close my eyes.